tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76061450136955482852018-11-22T00:14:54.700-05:00Michael Haskins Key West WriterWelcome to my blog.
I live in and write about Key West. If you have been here, that’s enough said. If you’ve never been in Key West, all I can say is use your imagination and then some, and you might almost understand.
I look forward to hearing from you and receiving your comments.Michael Haskinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01542564372760690584noreply@blogger.comBlogger138125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7606145013695548285.post-13631766201005850022014-10-29T03:00:00.000-04:002014-10-29T03:00:01.286-04:00Your name for a character in my next book!<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 11.6pt; margin-bottom: 4.5pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: #141823; font-family: &quot;Helvetica&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;"><b>Contest to have your name given to a character in my next book!&nbsp;<o:p></o:p></b></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 4.5pt; mso-line-height-alt: 11.6pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: #141823; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">Have you ever wished you were a character in fiction? Well, here’s your chance!</span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 4.5pt; mso-line-height-alt: 11.6pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: #141823; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">How’d you like your name to be given to a character in the book I am working on? Working title is MURPHY’S LAW. Four people can win and, to be politically correct, which my characters often aren’t, there are two slots for guys and two for gals!</span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 4.5pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 4.5pt; mso-line-height-alt: 11.6pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: #141823; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">What you have to do is go to my webpage –&nbsp;<a href="http://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.michaelhaskins.net%2F&amp;h=4AQHictqm&amp;enc=AZN3YD0uaiIRmP2BzljMyAXozDOtcXKfDxwTHhyNp32YI4M6tRA9uRE4rUSaIf5_y_-kMefNIIdBr-Vej5UaID9g5htjFqHM0ZvLxZAz5BDqnVBJNhyU2ppwEJMi5uLpqjxZGjDnIwH_LCXAdkXOeay9&amp;s=1" target="_blank"><span style="color: #3b5998; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">www.michaelhaskins.net</span></a>&nbsp;– and email me using the info@ email address at the bottom of the homepage. Before emailing, you&nbsp;have to decide if you want your name to go to a good guy/gal or a bad guy/gal.</span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 4.5pt 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: #141823; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">Let me warn you weak-of-heart types, the story deals with outlaw bikers, strip clubs and meth labs. Of course, it begins with a murder of a&nbsp;pregnant&nbsp;woman and goes downhill from there.</span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 4.5pt; mso-line-height-alt: 11.6pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: #141823; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">In the subject line of the email, state good or bad guy/gal.&nbsp;</span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 4.5pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 4.5pt; mso-line-height-alt: 11.6pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: #141823; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">And in the text box briefly tell my why you want your name affiliated with your choice. You also have the option to mention something about yourself so I can give that attribute to the character. Make sure you send this from an email address I can respond to, if you are chosen. The character is fictional and in no way reflects on your personality.</span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 4.5pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 4.5pt; mso-line-height-alt: 11.6pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: #141823; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">You can only enter once.</span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 4.5pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 4.5pt; mso-line-height-alt: 11.6pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: #141823; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">The contest is open through Nov. 28. On the 30th, I will put the names into four hats and have the winning names pulled at breakfast at Harpoon Harry’s in Key West. Winners will be notified by email.</span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 4.5pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 4.5pt; mso-line-height-alt: 11.6pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: #141823; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">Please feel free to have your family, friends and social media contact join in.</span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 4.5pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 4.5pt; mso-line-height-alt: 11.6pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: #141823; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">Who knows,</span><span style="color: #141823; font-family: &quot;Helvetica&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">&nbsp;</span><span style="color: #141823; font-size: 16pt; text-indent: 0in;">you may be the next Marlon Brando or&nbsp;</span><i style="color: #141823; font-size: 16pt; text-indent: 0in;">femme fatlae!</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 4.5pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 4.5pt; mso-line-height-alt: 11.6pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: #141823; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">Good luck!</span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>Michael Haskinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01542564372760690584noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7606145013695548285.post-59020971022375458272014-09-24T00:30:00.000-04:002014-09-24T00:30:00.747-04:00Critique Groups<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #F9F9F9; line-height: 16.5pt; margin-bottom: 15.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">With the revolutionary changes in the publishing world today, presenting a clean manuscript to an agent or publisher is important.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #F9F9F9; line-height: 16.5pt; margin-bottom: 15.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">A critique group is one of the easiest ways to get eyes on your manuscript for free, before sending it out. My experience in the small critique group I attend works well for me.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #F9F9F9; line-height: 16.5pt; margin-bottom: 15.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">The five of us are published authors, we meet once a week and can read up to ten pages. We must have copies for the other participants to read along and &nbsp;to write comments on as each of us reads our pages aloud. This can be time consuming, but is helpful. Then we take turns critiquing what has been read. At the end of the critique, the pages with notes go back to the writer.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #F9F9F9; line-height: 16.5pt; margin-bottom: 15.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">I find each part of this process important. It helps encourage me to write so I can produce the ten pages, an easy task since I’ve finished writing long before reading the last chapter at the critique group.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #F9F9F9; line-height: 16.5pt; margin-bottom: 15.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">Reading aloud lets me discover awkward phrasing or mixture of words that look good on paper but sound horrible when read out loud. One of the members has an editor complex and enjoys marking up my pages from an editor’s viewpoint. People pay for this, I get it free.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #F9F9F9; line-height: 16.5pt; margin-bottom: 15.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">As happens, sometimes I’m told my pages move the story along and as often as not, I’m told they make no sense in moving the story forward. Usually, the comments fall in-between. On occasion all four participants agree and it’s usually that what I wrote doesn’t advance the story. When that happens, I pay attention, go home, read the notes on the pages returned to me and see what I can do to correct the problem. I wouldn’t have seen the problem if it weren’t for the critique.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #F9F9F9; line-height: 16.5pt; margin-bottom: 15.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">The critique process works in different ways for different people. I attended the local ‘writers guild’ session and found it too big, too unorganized and more of a social gathering than a critique session.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #F9F9F9; line-height: 16.5pt; margin-bottom: 15.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">A critique group has to be honest. Sometimes that honesty hurts, but if it is helpful, it’s priceless. Writers have to have a thick skin and my critique group has helped prepare me for reviewers!<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #F9F9F9; line-height: 16.5pt; margin-bottom: 15.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">A good critique group’s honesty should cut both ways, pointing out why your selection doesn’t work and/or why it does work. A writer should walk away not bleeding but curious as to why things where said and what he/she can do to fix it. If it’s praise, the writer needs to see what he/she did that brought on the praise and try to repeat that style of writing, just as he/she should not want to repeat what caused the confusion with bad pages.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #F9F9F9; line-height: 16.5pt; margin-bottom: 15.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">I wanted a critique group that had mystery writers/readers. For me, having to explain over-and-over why you did something in the story to someone who doesn’t read my genre is a waste of time, especially since it takes away from others who may have a better understanding of the story line.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #F9F9F9; line-height: 16.5pt; margin-bottom: 15.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">What I didn’t want in a critique session is someone saying, “If I was writing this . . .” I am not interested in anyone else style, just mine. I want to know what’s confusing, what slows the pace or what makes no sense.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #F9F9F9; line-height: 16.5pt; margin-bottom: 15.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">While it’s always self-rewarding to show your writing to family and friends, unless that includes Stuart Neville, Ken Bruen, Louise Phillips, Declan Burke, Tana French and the like, family and friends don’t constitute a critique group. Enjoy their comments and then go look for a critique group that will tell you the truth.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #F9F9F9; line-height: 16.5pt; margin-bottom: 15.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">The more colleagues’ eyes you can get onto your pages, the better the book will be in the end. You must be as giving and honest as you want the others to be. Sometimes that’s not easy.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #F9F9F9; line-height: 16.5pt; margin-bottom: 15.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">I wouldn’t admit this in my group, but more often than not, the critique group’s questioning something I’ve written has been more helpful than their praise. My ego is stroked with the praise, but my book becomes better with the questions, even when I bleed a little from it, and I become a better writer too.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #F9F9F9; line-height: 16.5pt; margin-bottom: 15.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">One size doesn’t fit all. Check out more than one critique group to see if you are comfortable with the other participants. If not, move on. If all else fails, you are probably not alone, so why not form your own critique group of fellow writers/readers. In case you do that, remember what turned you off on the other critique groups and avoid those mistakes.<o:p></o:p></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div>Michael Haskinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01542564372760690584noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7606145013695548285.post-48515442489527567812014-09-10T00:30:00.001-04:002014-09-10T00:30:03.087-04:00Why a print book? Book Release Party, of course!<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 24px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 24px;">Today’s publish world is changing faster than I can swill a Guinness. I, like many others, have benefited from it. My last three books have been independently publish. Each has gone through the editing and cover design once offered by my traditional publisher. Two differences, I pay for the editing and cover design and like the result much better.</div><div style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 24px;">I have to do my own publicity, but then publishers have cut much of the PR budgets, so writers who are not on the NY Times bestseller list probably have to do that too, if they’re traditionally published. It’s time consuming until you get the routine down and then many of the markets still are hard to break into. That will change as more and more bestselling authors become independently published. The upside of going independent is the money. From Kindle I receive 70 percent and the Kindle website gives me daily sales numbers and a 30-day graph of how my sales are doing. Something the NY publishing world says they can’t do.</div><div style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 24px;">I still do offer my books on Amazon as POD trade paperbacks. The sales are not worth mentioning.</div><div style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 24px;">So why do it?</div><div style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 24px;">I have books to give family and friends, books to use for PR purposes&nbsp;and for signings. While some independent bookstores will agree to hold signings for non-traditionally published writers, here in Key West I hold my book release party for NOBODY WINS at the Smokin’ Tuna Saloon in Old Town.</div><div style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 24px;">I don’t have to give the saloon a 40-percent cut of the sales and that's a big thing. More money for me!</div><div style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 24px;"><img alt="nobody-wins-book-release-poster." class="size-medium wp-image-15361 alignright" data-mce-src="http://writeonthewater.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/09/nobody-wins-book-release-poster.-235x300.jpg" data-mce-style="line-height: 18px;" height="300" src="http://writeonthewater.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/09/nobody-wins-book-release-poster.-235x300.jpg" style="border: 0px; cursor: default; display: inline; float: right; height: auto; line-height: 18px; margin: 4px 0px 12px 24px; max-width: 100%;" width="235" /></div><div style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 24px;">I will also be at the Kilkenny House Irish Pub in Cranford, NJ on the 20th of the month, around 5 pm, and Barry, the owner let me use his pub for a few chapters in NOBODY WINS. It’s an unofficial book signing, but I’ll have a few copies so stop by if you’re in the neighborhood.in my pocket. I will be having a book release party on Saturday, Sept. 13, 2-4 pm at the Smokin’ Tuna, so if you’re in Key West, please stop by. We’re a small community and everyone knows everyone. In this case, I know the local Budweiser man and he has donated a keg of Mich Ultra. Buy a book and get a free draft of beer. I’m not sure if anyone will be keep track of who gets the drafts, so the curious may also get a free draft. The local rep for Pilar Rum has donated a few bottles and there will be specially priced Pilar Run drinks. All this makes the book release event more of a party, Key West style.</div><div style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 24px;">Other than book release parties, I don’t really sell many traditional books. You would think that the big publishers would take notice. More and more writers, like me, are having good sales on Kindle. Writers that the NY publishers weren’t interested in.<a data-mce-href="http://writeonthewater.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/09/book-release-poster-kilkeeny-8.5x11.pdf" href="http://writeonthewater.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/09/book-release-poster-kilkeeny-8.5x11.pdf" style="color: #743399; line-height: 1.5;"><br style="color: #444444; line-height: 1.5;" /></a></div><div style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 24px;">While I love books, to hold it while reading, to see its spine on my bookshelf, times are changing and when my kids inherit my book collection, they will probably be inheriting antiques. The same with newspapers. I want to hold it, smell the ink and hear the rustling of pages as I turn them. Not to mention that when I spill my café con leche on the newspaper it’s still readable. Not sure what a Kindle or tablet would do with my coffee soaking it.</div><div style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 24px;"><a data-mce-href="http://writeonthewater.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/09/book-release-poster-kilkeeny-8.5x11.pdf" href="http://writeonthewater.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/09/book-release-poster-kilkeeny-8.5x11.pdf" style="color: #743399; line-height: 1.5;">book-release-poster-kilkeeny-8.5x11</a></div>Michael Haskinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01542564372760690584noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7606145013695548285.post-88594405322829446932014-09-10T00:30:00.000-04:002014-09-10T00:30:01.390-04:00Why books? Book Release Party, of course!<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 24px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 24px;">Today’s publish world is changing faster than I can swill a Guinness. I, like many others, have benefited from it. My last three books have been independently publish. Each has gone through the editing and cover design once offered by my traditional publisher. Two differences, I pay for the editing and cover design and like the result much better.</div><div style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 24px;">I have to do my own publicity, but then publishers have cut much of the PR budgets, so writers who are not on the NY Times bestseller list probably have to do that too, if they’re traditionally published. It’s time consuming until you get the routine down and then many of the markets still are hard to break into. That will change as more and more bestselling authors become independently published. The upside of going independent is the money. From Kindle I receive 70 percent and the Kindle website gives me daily sales numbers and a 30-day graph of how my sales are doing. Something the NY publishing world says they can’t do.</div><div style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 24px;">I still do offer my books on Amazon as POD trade paperbacks. The sales are not worth mentioning.</div><div style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 24px;">So why do it?</div><div style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 24px;">I have books to give family and friends, books to use for PR purposes&nbsp;and for signings. While some independent bookstores will agree to hold signings for non-traditionally published writers, here in Key West I hold my book release party for NOBODY WINS at the Smokin’ Tuna Saloon in Old Town.</div><div style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 24px;">I don’t have to give the saloon a 40-percent cut of the sales and that's a big thing. More money for me!</div><div style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 24px;"><img alt="nobody-wins-book-release-poster." class="size-medium wp-image-15361 alignright" data-mce-src="http://writeonthewater.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/09/nobody-wins-book-release-poster.-235x300.jpg" data-mce-style="line-height: 18px;" height="300" src="http://writeonthewater.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/09/nobody-wins-book-release-poster.-235x300.jpg" style="border: 0px; cursor: default; display: inline; float: right; height: auto; line-height: 18px; margin: 4px 0px 12px 24px; max-width: 100%;" width="235" /></div><div style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 24px;">I will also be at the Kilkenny House Irish Pub in Cranford, NJ on the 20th of the month, around 5 pm, and Barry, the owner let me use his pub for a few chapters in NOBODY WINS. It’s an unofficial book signing, but I’ll have a few copies so stop by if you’re in the neighborhood.in my pocket. I will be having a book release party on Saturday, Sept. 13, 2-4 pm at the Smokin’ Tuna, so if you’re in Key West, please stop by. We’re a small community and everyone knows everyone. In this case, I know the local Budweiser man and he has donated a keg of Mich Ultra. Buy a book and get a free draft of beer. I’m not sure if anyone will be keep track of who gets the drafts, so the curious may also get a free draft. The local rep for Pilar Rum has donated a few bottles and there will be specially priced Pilar Run drinks. All this makes the book release event more of a party, Key West style.</div><div style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 24px;">Other than book release parties, I don’t really sell many traditional books. You would think that the big publishers would take notice. More and more writers, like me, are having good sales on Kindle. Writers that the NY publishers weren’t interested in.<a data-mce-href="http://writeonthewater.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/09/book-release-poster-kilkeeny-8.5x11.pdf" href="http://writeonthewater.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/09/book-release-poster-kilkeeny-8.5x11.pdf" style="color: #743399; line-height: 1.5;"><br style="color: #444444; line-height: 1.5;" /></a></div><div style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 24px;">While I love books, to hold it while reading, to see its spine on my bookshelf, times are changing and when my kids inherit my book collection, they will probably be inheriting antiques. The same with newspapers. I want to hold it, smell the ink and hear the rustling of pages as I turn them. Not to mention that when I spill my café con leche on the newspaper it’s still readable. Not sure what a Kindle or tablet would do with my coffee soaking it.</div><div style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 24px;"><a data-mce-href="http://writeonthewater.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/09/book-release-poster-kilkeeny-8.5x11.pdf" href="http://writeonthewater.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/09/book-release-poster-kilkeeny-8.5x11.pdf" style="color: #743399; line-height: 1.5;">book-release-poster-kilkeeny-8.5x11</a></div>Michael Haskinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01542564372760690584noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7606145013695548285.post-43662374262382775862014-08-26T07:30:00.001-04:002014-08-26T07:30:07.253-04:00New Book Release and other things . . .<br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">Three weeks ago, NOBODY WINS was released and is now available as a trade paperback on Amazon and my website and as an eBook at the Kindle Store.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">I ran into a lot of delays in writing this one. The trip to Ireland for research, helping put together the inaugural Mystery Writers Key West Fest and my job writing for the Key West Weekly.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">Now I am working on an idea for my next Mick Murphy Key West Mystery and it’s going to involve a week-long road trip to the Florida Panhandle or Panama City (still deciding) and New Orleans.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">I can begin writing the book soon, because the opening chapters happen in Key West and with a gruesome event that, I hope, will make all readers really hate the bad guy. Doing that from the beginning will be a new twist for me. I hope it works and doesn’t come back and bite me in the ass. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">I don’t usually have another book in mind when I finish one. I get to work on a short story and it’s kind of a vacation of the mind. But this story came to me while riding and listening to ole Waylon Jennings on a CD. I can’t remember the name of the song, but it had something to do with getting out of Tulsa before sunset. Find the song, listen to it and you might have an idea of where the story plot is going. Timely and&nbsp; gruesome, trust me. Anyway, like I often do, I take the idea in the song and wonder “What would Murphy do?” By the time I’d returned home I had the story kind of worked out in my head and have kept adjusting it, even while still writing NOBODY WINS.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">I had another surprise too. Maybe I just have too much time on my hands. I have the book following the next one kind of thought out too. I guess any short stories I had hoped to work on will have to wait. All I can tell you on the 2<sup>nd</sup>book is this time Mick has to come to the aid of his black-bag friend Norm. It’s usually Norm coming to save Mick’s butt.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">Other than that, I am busying working on the 2nd annual Mystery Writers Key West Fest for June of 2015. Wanna help?&nbsp; What Florida writer would you like to see as our Saturday guest author and luncheon speaker and why. Would he/she be reason enough for you to come to Key <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">West for the event?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">I am looking forward to hearing from the dedicated three readers following my posts on this one! <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">Oh yeah, if you buy NOBODY WINS, please write a review on its Amazon page, it really helps.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">Thanks and remember, a book a day keeps the mind busy and you out of trouble . . . live vicariously through mysteries!<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">michaelhaskins.net</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GbVuANw2nBw/U_xvsL_NjjI/AAAAAAAAAx0/Thf-pJoDaiU/s1600/nobody-wins-book-release-poster..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GbVuANw2nBw/U_xvsL_NjjI/AAAAAAAAAx0/Thf-pJoDaiU/s1600/nobody-wins-book-release-poster..jpg" height="320" width="251" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div>Michael Haskinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01542564372760690584noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7606145013695548285.post-31283864277693220922014-06-11T08:28:00.001-04:002014-06-11T08:28:39.741-04:00Blog Hop<div class="MsoNormal">I have been tagged by author Stephen Campbell in a blog hop. Stephen is a friend, and he’ll also be at the Mystery Writers Key West Fest this coming weekend. I am responding to some questions he sent and will tag three other writers to blog also.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.stephenrcampbell.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/07/Hunters-Gamble-191x300.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Hunter's Gamble" border="0" class="size-medium wp-image-640 alignright" height="200" scale="0" src="http://www.stephenrcampbell.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/07/Hunters-Gamble-191x300.png" width="127" /></a>I am currently finishing up the latest Mick Murphy Key West Mystery, “Nobody Wins.” It should be available in late July. The book takes Murphy and his friend, the ex-smuggler, to New Jersey and Dublin, Ireland, in search of Murphy’s cousin Cecil. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Lots of good action and visits to Irish pubs and a graveyard in Skerries, Ireland. The book begins and ends in Key West.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I think my writing differs from others who use Key West as the background of their stories because I use real places and names, mixing them with factious characters.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.stephenrcampbell.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/07/Steve-Shades-Full-Picture.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="Steve Shades - Full Picture" border="0" class=" wp-image-52 alignleft" height="110" scale="0" src="http://www.stephenrcampbell.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/07/Steve-Shades-Full-Picture.jpg" width="83" /></a>I write about this island because it’s an interesting and unique place. Key West is often called the American Caribbean Island. That’s the good part. The hard part is keeping the books mysteries, because crime, like the ones I write about, doesn’t happen here. I have to find a crime somewhere else and figure a way for it to come to Key West and involve Murphy.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I usually writer in the mornings, after my café con leches and continue until I’ve exhausted my story line and need to refresh.&nbsp;&nbsp; I have an general beginning, middle and end. I do not outline, as such. I think of something I want to use in the story and keep index cards with brief examples. <o:p></o:p></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal">My characters usually take over the story line before I’m too long into writing and that would make outlining useless. I don’t know how writers follow their outlines. Some do. I can’t.<o:p></o:p></div>Michael Haskinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01542564372760690584noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7606145013695548285.post-48171868230629395962014-04-10T14:45:00.000-04:002014-04-10T14:45:33.105-04:00Dissecting "To Beat the Devil" - Part 4 Mexican Drug Cartels<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">People have asked me about the Mexican part of <b>To Beat the Devil</b>. I spent most summers in the ‘70s, ‘80s &amp; early ‘90s in Tijuana, Mexico, with road trips to La Paz, at the end of the Baja peninsula. I witnessed the gradual change as the drug cartels began in-fighting and Tijuana, and Baja, became the battleground between these drug gangs.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">I chose Tampico, Mexico as the location because of its location to the Gulf of Mexico and it is a major port, close to Texas and has a Mexican Navy base. The corruption throughout Mexican military and politicians is well known and documented. In most cases, the Mexican Navy Special Forces have captured or killed reputed cartel bosses. It appears to be working more closely with American intelligence and DEA in the battle to stop the cartels. The head of the Mexican task force fight the cartel, working out of the Mexican president’s office, was arrested for leaking information to the cartels. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">While my fictitious battle by the lake outside the city limits was totally made up, attacks as I describe have happened many times in Mexico. The things Pauly reveals about his days with the cartel are documented as fact in news stories. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">The Mexican drug cartels behead more victims than Muslim terrorists. Also, more journalists are killed in Mexico than in Iraq and Afghanistan. It is a dangerous place. So dangerous that in 2009 when I was signing <b>Chasin’ the Wind</b>, my friends in Tijuana told me not to come. Even today, after the once powerful local cartel leaders in Baja have been jailed or killed, they have told me not to come. I spent almost 28 summers in Tijuana and La Paz with my twin daughters. The people are wonderful, the food is great and the countryside is beautiful.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">The Los Angeles Times has been running a series for years on the Mexican drug war and after moving to Key West, I kept up with it. Google <b>Mexico Under Siege</b> or find the stories on the Times’ website, to see for yourself.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">While I made up the battle, drug czars, and Mick Murphy’s escape, the background is taken from daily facts. It is happening, worse in some cases, today. So yes, it’s fiction, based on fact. It is a major concern of Homeland Security that the cartel may use, if it isn’t already, its drug smuggling routes into the USA to sneak in terrorists.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">It is also well established in the intelligence community that Iran uses Muslin terrorists for its own purposes. Think of the bombing that was supposed to kill the Saudi Ambassador in D.C. The plotters were paid by the Iranians. It’s all in the daily news and I just collected the facts and put them all together to make an interesting story.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">* * *</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;">If you &nbsp;haven't checked out the Mystery Writers Key West Fest, scheduled for June 13 &amp; 14, you should. www.mysterywriterskeywestfest.com&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;">See you in Key West!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div>Michael Haskinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01542564372760690584noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7606145013695548285.post-75687479966893030542014-03-11T14:35:00.001-04:002014-03-11T14:35:29.088-04:00Dissecting "To Beat the Devil" - Part Three<div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 24px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 24px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Last week we dealt with the Russian mob.&nbsp;</div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 24px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">The chase has gone from South Florida to Mexico as Mick Murphy and his friends are trying to find the location of Alexei, the Russian gang boss. The search takes them to Tampico, Mexico. Tampico is where Mick’s friend, and ex-drug smuggler Pauly, sometimes worked out of and where he decided to leave the business. Read the book and you’ll find out what caused Pauly to make a run for it!</div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 24px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">It is also at Tampico, where they discover Alexei’s journal that will take them back to Key West. So, how factual is it that Iranians would use a Mexican cartel to sneak Palestinians into the US? You’ll learn about the plan in my book. Let me explain what my intel contact told me. Iranians are not Arabs, they are Persian. You don’t hear about Iranian suicide bombers. But the Iranians pay Hezbollah to do the dirty work and Hezbollah recruits Palestinians.</div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 24px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Has it happened before, Iranians using Mexican cartels for smuggling people into the US? No one can say for sure, but Iranian militants, as well as other Muslin terrorist groups have a foothold in South and Central America. That’s a known fact, so American intelligence probably keeps an eye on them. Might make another good book.</div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 24px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">So, my premise is possible.</div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 24px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">The Russian gangster’s journal is a throwback to his days in the KGB. Again, it is known the KGB kept good records. That was proven when East Germany’s government went the way of all Eastern Communists bloc. It is still not know what facts were found at the Stasi HQ, but it made a lot of West German politicians nervous. Yes, Alexei’s journal would be a prize.</div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 24px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">But, ain’t there always a but? The journal is in Russian (come on, Alexei is Russian so of course he’d write in Russian) and no one among Mick cohorts speaks the language. Mick and Pauly know that their friend in Key West, Burt, has a relationship with a Russian woman. Escaping a Mexican Navy attack on the cartel’s smuggling base, and facing off threats from another cartel, the crew get airborne. While in flight, Murphy flips the journal’s pages and comes across the longitude/latitude numbers and realizes they designate Key West Harbor (remember, he’s a sailor and would know his home ports coordinates).</div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 24px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">This discovery brings them back to Key West, to warn the authorities, but not until they get Burt’s friend to translate the journal. What they discover shocks them. What happens when they bring the time sensitive material to the authorities shocks them even worse.</div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 24px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Just a quick side note here, if you’ve been watching the news about the Malaysian Airline that has gone missing (as I write this), you may have heard that an Iranian bought the two men using stolen passports their tickets. That news has the world’s intelligence agencies paying close attention now. As in “To Beat the Devil,” Iranian agents are behind many terrorist actions, even if it’s a terrorist act performed by an Arab, or other non-Iranian.</div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 24px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Truth can be as strange as fiction. We’ll talk about what the Iranians wanted the Palestinians trained for and why it was scheduled for Key West, next time.</div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 24px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">www.michaelhaskins.net</div>Michael Haskinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01542564372760690584noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7606145013695548285.post-75002414080309485682014-03-03T10:34:00.002-05:002014-03-03T10:35:33.545-05:00Dissecting "To Beat the Devil" - part two<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EwabGiaQuFI/UxSf-glHPyI/AAAAAAAAAvQ/qYKiMIXHY1s/s1600/Devil+cover+72dpi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EwabGiaQuFI/UxSf-glHPyI/AAAAAAAAAvQ/qYKiMIXHY1s/s1600/Devil+cover+72dpi.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">All right, the overall premise of the book was done in my last blog. Now it’s time to deal with the opening of the book.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">“To Beat the Devil” opens differently than my other books, because it’s told in Norm’s voice. I began in Murphy’s voice, but realized what happened in the end of “Stairway to the Bottom” would have left Murphy in bad shape, both physically and mentally.&nbsp; So, Norm, Murphy’s black-bag friend begins the story and it’s not in Key West. About 100 pages into the book, they arrive back in Key West, and I have Murphy telling the story.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">So, the book opens with Norm explaining why Murphy is beating a Russian gangster with a rubber hose. There are some later torture scenes that I made up, but the practice is not fiction. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">A lot of the story in the beginning deals with tracking Alexei, the person responsible for the violent ending of “Stairway to the Bottom.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">Without giving too much away, there’s a few chapters set in South Beach outside and inside a Russian “private club.” It’s true, the Russian Mafia brings over bar girls from the old Soviet Bloc and use them to entice wealthy men visiting Miami to come to the clubs, where they guys are usually fleeced with prices of up to a grand for drinks. Stories have appeared in the Miami Herald about these clubs and sometimes the owners are taken to court. But it takes a while.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">There’s a few altercations with the Russians that leads Murphy to Mexico and drug gangs fighting each other. Remember, Murphy’s friend Pauly is an ex-drug smuggler and knows his way around Tampico, Mexico. Thanks to Pauly’s connections, during a Mexican Navy attack to the drug compound from a drug dealer who wants to escape the attack, Murphy finds out about a possible terrorist attack about to happen in Key West.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">These chapters are built around Iranians, Russians and Mexican drug cartels. Is it real? Can it happen? When I brought the chapters to my intelligence expert, he said I was right on, especially about the Iranians. To find out what I was right on about, you’ll need to read the book. But, I can assure you, the chapters concerning the Russians and their cohorts are plausible and what I have them involved in may scare you as much as it did me. Sometimes in writing fiction, the truth behind the story may be more titillating. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><o:p>Next blog, why the refusal by authorities to believe an attack is coming.</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div>Michael Haskinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01542564372760690584noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7606145013695548285.post-26582927735377402462014-02-12T07:11:00.001-05:002014-02-12T07:11:22.216-05:00Truth has to come out in fiction<br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">I’ve had a few discussions with people, some friends and others that showed up at the Smokin’ Tuna Saloon on Friday for happy hour because they read my books and know I’ll be there. The discussions are about To Beat the Devil, my latest book.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">The discussions and questions didn’t happen in order of how the book unfolds, but someone I met last week thought I should talk about the questions that have been asked and follow the book. For the next few blogs here, I will do just that. If you’ve read the book and have a question about how I came up with something or if it’s possible or true, write and I’ll try to answer you.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">The most often observation is that throughout the book there are two sets of bad guys.&nbsp; The terrorists and all their cohorts, and people in government that should know better but it would seem that they want the terrorist act to happen. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">I wrote the book and made a few government officials bad guys. Men and women that shouldn’t be. Hard to believe, people have told me. If you haven’t heard about the Whitey Bulger case in Boston and the corrupt FBI agents that allowed Whitey to get away with murder because his other activities helped advance their careers, go to Google. A badge, a gun and an acronym for an employer doesn’t guarantee someone is a good guy.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 0in;">How many American agents have gone to jail for spying for the enemy? How many cops have gone to jail for stealing or even for dealing? Is Snowdon a hero for exposing NSA snooping on unsuspecting American citizen and world leaders, or is he a trader? It may be a personal decision, but it’s fodder for mystery writers.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uNqIr8HQRDc/UvtkzUhE3AI/AAAAAAAAAvA/sKAb-4DZLxg/s1600/kindle-cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uNqIr8HQRDc/UvtkzUhE3AI/AAAAAAAAAvA/sKAb-4DZLxg/s1600/kindle-cover.jpg" height="320" width="220" /></a></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">So, in To Beat the Devil, my protagonists, Mick Murphy, and his ragtag group of miscreant friends, have to seek justice because those in positions to do it won’t. In all my books, it’s about people seeking justice when the system is broke or for other reasons, the system doesn’t work. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">I make up the situations in my books, but the background is there for anyone to see. All you need to do is look for it. With the fall of Communism, writers like me needed to find another enemy and we didn’t have to look far! Corruption is in all our backyards. Read the papers, that’s where I get ideas, or watch the local and network news.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">To Beat the Devil is based on a scary premise of what if . . . what if the terrorists were trained in Mexico, crossed the border to attack us, using drug smugglers and what if officials in our intelligence agencies new this but turned a blind eye. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">I learned things in my research that concerned me. Are we as safe as the government says? Are government agencies acting as if they are at war with each other when it comes to garnishing federal budget dollars? Would intelligence agency officials lie all the way to the White House to protect themselves? Would they let innocent people die to advance their careers or their agency?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">We’ll see, in the coming weeks, what I learned and it might scare you too.<o:p></o:p></div>Michael Haskinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01542564372760690584noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7606145013695548285.post-10857014536709745722013-06-12T10:33:00.000-04:002013-06-12T10:36:02.006-04:00The Right Age/ Fictional Characters<div class="yiv83264355MsoNormal" id="yui_3_7_2_1_1371042142041_7885" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 15.199999809265137px;">Michael Haskins was kind enough to ask me to put together an article for his blog, suggesting as a subject how my series character Noah Milano was allowed to grow and all problems that come with it.</span></div><span style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 12px;"></span><br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 12px;"></span><br style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><div class="yiv83264355MsoNormal" id="yui_3_7_2_1_1371042142041_7887" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; padding: 0px;"><span id="yui_3_7_2_1_1371042142041_7886" lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 15.199999809265137px;">It is a common problem for series characters to be outdated with the passing of time. Spenser should be an old fart by now, having fought in Korea. His creator (Robert B Parker) chose to more or less ignore this fact. Michael Connelly’s Harry Bosch seems to age in real time, which had his creator retire his hero for a book or two until he got lucky and the retirement age for cops was extended. The Punisher (from Marvel Comics) used to be a Vietnam veteran that lost his family to the mob. In his first movie they made him a cop because he’d just had to be too old. Similarly, in the movie version of the A-team they updated the characters into soldiers of the war in Iraq instead of Vietnam.</span></div><span style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 12px;"></span><br style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><div class="yiv83264355MsoNormal" id="yui_3_7_2_1_1371042142041_7889" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; padding: 0px;"><span id="yui_3_7_2_1_1371042142041_7888" lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 15.199999809265137px;">With all of that in mind I made sure my main character, Noah Milano, was pretty young in his first story (<a href="http://www.thrillingdetective.com/fiction/00_06_2.html" id="yui_3_7_2_1_1371042142041_7900" rel="nofollow" style="color: #2862c5; outline: 0px;" target="_blank"><span id="yui_3_7_2_1_1371042142041_7899" style="color: blue;">http://www.thrillingdetective.com/fiction/00_06_2.html</span></a>) and novel (<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Knight-Syndrome-Milano-Mystery-ebook/dp/B006N0MBI0/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&amp;ie=UTF8&amp;qid=1331714278&amp;sr=1-2" id="yui_3_7_2_1_1371042142041_7902" rel="nofollow" style="color: #2862c5; outline: 0px;" target="_blank"><span id="yui_3_7_2_1_1371042142041_7901" style="color: blue;">http://www.amazon.com/Knight-Syndrome-Milano-Mystery-ebook/dp/B006N0MBI0/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&amp;ie=UTF8&amp;qid=1331714278&amp;sr=1-2</span></a>) so he could go years without becoming too old to kick some serious ass or bed all the hot girls. Of course, that wasn’t the only reason I made him in his twenties in his first story. When I wrote that one I was the same age, and although I loved guys like Matt Scudder, Spenser and Amos Walker I also couldn’t quite relate to their divorces, or love for jazz. So, Noah liked metal, hadn’t had any meaningful relationships. Instead, he was a young guy who just left home and was trying to find himself through a new job. That I could relate to.</span></div><span style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 12px;"></span><br style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><div class="yiv83264355MsoNormal" id="yui_3_7_2_1_1371042142041_7891" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; padding: 0px;"><span id="yui_3_7_2_1_1371042142041_7890" lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 15.199999809265137px;">Now, more than 13 years later Noah has become a bit older as well, like I have. When he tells his friend (Minnie) in the novella I’m working on now that he isn’t much of an investigator (he specializes in security and body guarding) she tells him he solved way too many murders for that one still to fly. With those words I acknowledge the fact he’s slowly been changing and aging. Generally I don’t change the character too much though. He’s still single, he’s still trying to find redemption for the life he used to live as a fixer for his father (an LA mobster). That’s because every story can be the first one a reader gets in his hands and I don’t want to feel they’ve been left out. Lee Child really does a good job of that too, but of course Jack Reacher’s military past (and acknowledgment of his exact age) might harm his longevity.</span></div><span style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 12px;"></span><br style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><div class="yiv83264355MsoNormal" id="yui_3_7_2_1_1371042142041_7893" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; padding: 0px;"><span id="yui_3_7_2_1_1371042142041_7892" lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 15.199999809265137px;">In twenty years Noah will be about sixty years old. Will I have him age along with me until that time comes? I’m not sure. Hey, I’m not sure people will be reading about him to justify him being around that long. What I do know is that I’m happy I studied the masters enough to know the pitfalls of a series character and did my best to avoid them.</span></div><span style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 12px;"></span><br style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><div class="yiv83264355MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; padding: 0px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 15.199999809265137px;">If you want to know how I did you can pick up the novelette for Scoundrel (<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Scoundrel-Noah-Milano-Novelette-ebook/dp/B009L5Q8Q0/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&amp;ie=UTF8&amp;qid=1371044451&amp;sr=1-1&amp;keywords=%27%27noah+milano%27%27" rel="nofollow" style="color: #2862c5; outline: 0px;" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.amazon.com/Scoundrel-Noah-Milano-Novelette-ebook/dp/B009L5Q8Q0/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&amp;ie=UTF8&amp;qid=1371044451&amp;sr=1-1&amp;keywords=%27%27noah+milano%27%27</span></a>) for free the next four days or check out some of his other stories (&nbsp;<a href="http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=ntt_athr_dp_sr_1?_encoding=UTF8&amp;field-author=Jochem%20Vandersteen&amp;search-alias=books&amp;sort=relevancerank#/ref=sr_nr_n_0?rh=n%3A283155%2Cn%3A10468%2Ck%3A%27%27noah+milano%27%27&amp;keywords=%27%27noah+milano%27%27&amp;ie=UTF8&amp;qid=1371044435&amp;rnid=1000" rel="nofollow" style="color: #2862c5; outline: 0px;" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=ntt_athr_dp_sr_1?_encoding=UTF8&amp;field-author=Jochem%20Vandersteen&amp;search-alias=books&amp;sort=relevancerank#/ref=sr_nr_n_0?rh=n%3A283155%2Cn%3A10468%2Ck%3A%27%27noah+milano%27%27&amp;keywords=%27%27noah+milano%27%27&amp;ie=UTF8&amp;qid=1371044435&amp;rnid=1000</span></a>&nbsp;).</span></div><span style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 12px;"></span><br style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 12px;"></span> <div class="yiv83264355MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #454545; display: block; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; orphans: auto; padding: 0px; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></div>Michael Haskinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01542564372760690584noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7606145013695548285.post-41231160856116532422013-02-02T10:38:00.000-05:002013-02-02T10:38:52.737-05:00The Poksu Conspiracy by Chester CampbellMy friend, and fellow writer, Chester Campbell's book <u>"The Poksu&nbsp;Conspiracy"</u> is out and available, so I thought I offer you a little taste of this well-written story. Korea, both North &amp; South, has been in the news recently and that only makes this story more relevant.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rlNWwI95G20/UQ0yItO4gJI/AAAAAAAAAbA/dbK-ZTNep8M/s1600/2012+Chester+head.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rlNWwI95G20/UQ0yItO4gJI/AAAAAAAAAbA/dbK-ZTNep8M/s1600/2012+Chester+head.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Here is a brief synopsis: <u>The Poksu Conspiracy</u></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">The Cold War has ended, but a reliable report reveals a plot that could throw the <st1:place w:st="on">Far East</st1:place> into turmoil. Burke Hill, clandestine director for a Washington PR firm that’s a CIA spinoff, is tasked to find the truth about a secret agreement for <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Israel</st1:place></st1:country-region> to help <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">South Korea</st1:place></st1:country-region>develop nuclear weapons. This follows the new <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Seoul</st1:place></st1:city> government’s request that all <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">U.S.</st1:place></st1:country-region> troops be withdrawn. Further complicating the situation, a bomb decimates the North Korean leadership in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Pyongyang</st1:place></st1:city>. As Hill soon discovers, a nuclear test is scheduled in a few months. He finds a diligent Seoul Metropolitan Police detective investigating a series of murders he believes are targeted at civilian leaders who favor close cooperation with <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">America</st1:place></st1:country-region>. And Captain Yun Yu-sop has identified a ruthless Korean assassin who targets anyone who stands in the way, including himself and Burke Hill.</span><div><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Now that I've got your interest, Chester has sent along two chapters for me to offer you. Here they are.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TZBQmQtAY4U/UQ0x7z17PhI/AAAAAAAAAa4/as00BZhaB8k/s1600/PoksuCover-web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TZBQmQtAY4U/UQ0x7z17PhI/AAAAAAAAAa4/as00BZhaB8k/s320/PoksuCover-web.jpg" width="211" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="NormalCentered"><br /></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">T<u>he Poksu Conspiracy</u>&nbsp;</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;"><br /></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: center;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">Prologue<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">The Korean peninsula, by some quirk of geologic fate, was carved out of a triangle formed by the three major Far Eastern powers—China, Japan and Russia. During the latter part of the nineteenth century, <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Korea</st1:place></st1:country-region>'s larger, more populous and more advanced neighbors successively battled each other for hegemony in the region. By 1905, <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Japan</st1:place></st1:country-region>emerged the victor and with ruthless determination proceeded to subjugate the seemingly misnamed "Land of the Morning Calm" until the final, cataclysmic blasts of World War II.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">Despite Japanese attempts to obliterate their culture through such outrages as forbidding use of their native language, the Korean people showed remarkable resilience. They steadfastly refused to kowtow to the Emperor. In <st1:metricconverter productid="1919, a" w:st="on">1919, a</st1:metricconverter> group of patriots banded together in a non-violent crusade for Korean independence, which became known as the March First Movement. On that date, a declaration of independence was read to the assembled crowd in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Seoul</st1:place></st1:city>'s <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Pagoda</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Park</st1:placetype></st1:place>. Japanese police and troops massacred scores of peaceful demonstrators. The movement's leadership was virtually annihilated.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">One of them, an enterprising young merchant, escaped with his wife and went into hiding for a year until a determined Japanese police major flushed him out like a hapless quail from a friend's country home east of the capital. His death sentence was as inevitable as the snows on <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Mt.</st1:placetype> <st1:placename w:st="on">Soraksan</st1:placename></st1:place>.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">The execution took place in April, exactly five months before the night his wife gave birth to a sturdy baby boy. Her pregnancy had likely saved her from an equally harsh fate. From the start he was a husky, healthy, bright-eyed youngster, and at an early age he came to realize that his friends possessed something vital that he lacked—a father.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">The boy's mother believed her son should know the grisly truth. She chose a cold, wintry morning when the elements seemed as inhospitable as their foreign masters. As a blustery wind swept down out of <st1:place w:st="on">Manchuria</st1:place>, ruffling the frigid waters of the <st1:place w:st="on">Yellow Sea</st1:place>like an irritable Manchu spirit, she sat him down in her parents' small living room and explained why and how his father had died.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">The boy sat with legs crossed, hands clasped in front of him. The look on his face mirrored his confusion. "But if he did nothing wrong, why did the Japanese kill him?"<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">"What he did wrong," she said with the passion of a Buddhist priest instructing a postulant, "was insist that <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Korea</st1:place></st1:country-region> should be free again, that our people should be able to live as they please, not as dictated by outsiders."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">"That is what I will do," said the boy, determination in his eyes. "I will tell them to go back to <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Japan</st1:place></st1:country-region>and leave us alone."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">She fixed him with a stern gaze, but with pride in her heart. "No, my son. Not now. Perhaps one of these days, when you are older and understand more of the Japanese ways. Maybe then you can join with others as your father did and help rid <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Korea</st1:place></st1:country-region>of these usurpers. For now you must keep silent. To do otherwise could endanger our whole family."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">The youngster kept his silence, but he frequently brooded over his father's death and nurtured a deep hatred for the Japanese. When <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Japan</st1:place></st1:country-region> launched its war against <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">China</st1:place></st1:country-region> in 1937, the occupation authorities pressured young Koreans to volunteer for duty in the Japanese army. The boy heard a different drum beat and marched down a path of resistance. At the end of the summer when he was barely seventeen, he left a note of explanation for his mother and joined a friend named Ahn Wi-jong on the journey north to the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Yalu</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">River</st1:placetype></st1:place>, where they crossed into <st1:place w:st="on">Manchuria</st1:place>. To their surprise, they discovered many areas of the mountainous countryside more Korean than Chinese. They had little difficulty in linking up with other expatriates who had joined the Chinese to form the Northeast Anti-Japanese United Army.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">The camp was located along a broad stream in an almost inaccessible ravine of the rugged Changbaik mountains, a range with peaks that towered up to <st1:metricconverter productid="9,000 feet" w:st="on">9,000 feet</st1:metricconverter> along the Korean border. The ragtag band comprised half of a division, although they numbered no more than a hundred men. When the young recruits arrived, they were assigned to the Third Detachment, led by a grizzled veteran named Yi Ki-baik. Yi was a short, wiry man with narrowed eyes that held the distracted, faraway look of a warrior not yet finished with yesterday's battles but already at work on tomorrow's. Yi gave them captured Japanese Arisaka rifles and ammunition belts and began their instruction in the not-so-gentle ways of Taekwondo, the Korean martial art.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">The fall weather was crisp and cold in the mountains, the gathering gray clouds a harbinger of an early snowfall. Relaxing around the warmth of a campfire at the close of that first day, Yi briefed his young charges in the ways of partisan warfare.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">"We don't fight like soldiers," he said, tilting his peaked cap back at a jaunty angle, eyes appearing as narrow slits in the flickering firelight. "We fight like tigers. Stealth is our weapon. We track our enemy silently. When the time is right, we strike with sudden fury." He pounded the edge of one hand against the open palm of the other. "Then we withdraw just as quickly."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">"What do you do if he sees you?" a wide-eyed Ahn asked. Ahn was smaller than his friend, and a bit less self-assured. But he'd had the guts to run away from a life in a Buddhist monastery that his parents had chosen for him.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">Yi shrugged. "If he does, and his numbers are superior to ours, we disappear." He threw his arms up suddenly. "Poof! Like shadows. We wait for another day. The Japanese have us vastly outnumbered. So we must fight only on our own terms."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">"What if they should find this camp?" inquired the martyr's son, a strapping youth who was rapidly maturing into a tall, muscular young man.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">Yi laughed. "Don't worry, they will. Soon. Then we move on. That's probably why we're called the First Route Army. We're always en route to some place else." He studied the lanky teenager, eyes almost closed. "You say you come from a well-to-do family in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Seoul</st1:place></st1:city>?"<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">"Yes, sir."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">"Then we must give you a new name. That way, if the Japanese learn about you, they won't be able to retaliate against your family. Many of our men have changed their names. Our division commander was born near <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Pyongyang</st1:place></st1:city> as Kim Song-ju. Now he is known as Kim Il-sung. Since most of our countrymen are named Han, Lee or Park, which would you prefer?"<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">The youth grinned. "Lee," he said promptly. He had no particular reason but was always quick with a reply.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">"Very well, you shall be Lee Horangi-chelmun."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">Young Tiger Lee.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">As it soon developed, the name fit him like a glove. Horangi-chelmun proved to be a ferocious fighter. Whether the weapon was firearms or fists and feet, he learned quickly and used his knowledge with deadly accuracy. By the time he was nineteen, he had been given command of his own detachment. He was a tightly wound spring, a bundle of pent-up energy, a grenade ready to explode. Despite the bitter cold of the snow-blanketed winters, shortages of food and ammunition, even clothing, he led his marauding partisans through southern and southeastern <st1:place w:st="on">Manchuria</st1:place>, creating havoc for the Japanese army and police forces. Their official records came to include more than a few references to fierce encounters with one Lee Horangi-chelmun.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">Early in his service with the Northeast Anti-Japanese United Army, Lee learned that it had been organized and was directed by Chinese and Korean communists. Each Route Army had its political commissar, and the major unit commanders were as dedicated to communism as to harrassing the Japanese. As for Lee, he had come from a merchant class background and found calls for workers to arise about as useful as telling oxen to climb trees. His only interest was in fighting the Japanese invaders. As the campaign moved into the forties, he became ever more restless, anxious to battle the hated enemy on his own turf rather than here in <st1:place w:st="on">Manchuria</st1:place>.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">In March of 1940, Kim Il-sung's harried guerrillas ambushed and wiped out a Japanese Special Police force that had been tracking them. It enraged Major General Nozoe Shotoku. He singled out Kim's division for a redoubled effort, and as summer faded into fall, their plight took on the rapidly deteriorating look of oak leaves that had flashed in glorious splendor only to turn a dusty brown and drop from the trees. An increasing number of defectors surrendered, and it soon resembled a game show, with cash prizes doled out to those who answered questions that divulged their fellow partisans' hiding places.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">Early in 1941, their plight became intolerable and Kim decided it was time to cut his losses. He called his detachment leaders together for a final pow-wow.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">"Our mission here is finished," a sober-faced Kim acknowledged. "The deserters are killing us. If you suspect anyone of considering defection, shoot him. Bring the rest of your men and we'll make our way through Hunchun prefecture. We can cross into the <st1:place w:st="on">Soviet Union</st1:place>west of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Vladivostok</st1:place></st1:city>. The Russians will help us reorganize and re-equip. Then we can plan what action to take in the future."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">The other leaders nodded their agreement, but Lee demurred.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">"If that's your judgment, so be it," he said. "You can take most of my men with you. But I will pick a few to go with me back across the Yalu. I intend to raise some hell in our fatherland before I'm finished."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">Kim eyed him critically. He was famous for detesting dissent. "The Japanese might capture you, force you to reveal our escape plans."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">That brought a chuckle from Lee. "They would kill me on sight."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">"But what about your men? One of them could talk."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">"Forgive me, commander," said Lee, "but I intend to take only three. They will know nothing of your plans. With our small group, I can assure you the Japanese will never even see us."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">Kim displayed a gloomy frown. Lee knew his action bordered on insubordination, and Kim was known to end such discussions with a bullet through the dissenter’s head. But Lee held his rifle at the ready. After a few tense moments, Kim dismissed him with a sweep of his hand, as though brushing off a troublesome insect. "Do as you wish. I intend to make my stand another day, in another way."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">Lee went back to his detachment and picked his three best fighters, including Ahn Wi-jong. They were young men who had no interest in communism, only a deep commitment to make the Japanese pay for terrorizing their homeland. They took the name "Vengeance" and identified each other by number. Lee was known as <i>Poksu-il</i>—"Vengeance One."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">During the next four years, they haunted the length and breadth of <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Korea</st1:place></st1:country-region> like a ghostly band, faceless demons who caused more than one high-ranking Japanese official to choose hara kiri as the only solution to the ignominy of a glaring defeat at the hands of these Korean "bandits." After one of the Emperor's besieged emissaries took his life rather than surrender to a threatening Lee, the Young Tiger brashly claimed the ceremonial short sword as a trophy.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">The group maintained absolute secrecy concerning their real identities. However, the <i>hangul</i>script for <i>Poksu</i>, drawn inside a square, appeared often enough at the scene of bombings and assassinations to create a legend around the Vengeance team.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">Shortly before the end of the war, disaster struck. They had planned a simple assault on a postal facility at <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Taejon</st1:place></st1:city>, about halfway between <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Seoul</st1:place></st1:city>and the southern <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">port</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename w:st="on">Pusan</st1:placename></st1:place>. The intention was to raise a small amount of cash for new ventures, but unknown to the team, the Japanese were in the process of making a major shipment of funds at the time. Extra police had been assigned to guard the facility. The result was an unexpected shootout. Lee and his friend Ahn managed to escape, but their two accomplices died in a hail of gunfire from the waiting police.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">After the Japanese surrender in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Tokyo</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Bay</st1:placetype></st1:place> a few weeks later, Lee turned up in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Seoul</st1:place></st1:city>using his real name for the first time in years. He told how he had joined the Anti-Japanese Army in <st1:place w:st="on">Manchuria</st1:place> but explained that he had left it because of disagreement with its communist leadership. He declined to talk about his combat experiences, taking pains to emphasize his opposition to communism. The "temporary" partition of <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Korea</st1:place></st1:country-region> with Soviet responsibility for the north and American occupation of the south convinced him that a record of participation with the communist partisans would not enhance his future in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Seoul</st1:place></st1:city>. Silently he thanked Yi Ki-baik, long since killed in battle, for giving him a false identity when he had joined the guerrillas. But it wasn't until a few years later, when the Russians announced their choice of Kim Il-sung as premier of their puppet regime in the north, that he fully realized how correct his assessment had been.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">By the spring of 1950, he had graduated from college and become an officer in the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Republic</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename w:st="on">Korea Army</st1:placename></st1:place>. He acquired an impressive chest-full of decorations during the war with the North Koreans and the Chinese, fighting at times alongside the Americans. After the uneasy truce was established along the DMZ at the end of the active phase of the war, he continued his climb to the rank of colonel in the ROK army, gaining respect as an officer who showed a ruthless zeal for carrying out tough assignments. At the same time, he gained a bit of notoriety for his uncompromising support of efforts to modernize <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">South Korea</st1:place></st1:country-region>'s economy. High-ranking military officers dominated the government, and his views were actively solicited. He was a man of immense confidence and pride, both in his own abilities and in the future of this former "<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Hermit</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Kingdom</st1:placetype></st1:place>," which, by the spring of 1963, was just beginning to flex its emerging economic muscles. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">Over several months, a persistent line of thought had churned in the back of the Colonel’s mind, nebulous at first, gradually becoming more focused. His mother's recent death gave it more urgency, shaping it into something of a mission every bit as pivotal as the one he had pursued with his <i>Poksu</i>comrades. When he read a newspaper account about a young Korean-American boy whose mother was killed in a hideous incident ridiculously ruled as accidental, his thoughts were quickly fused into a flesh and blood crusade.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">The boy was named Kim Vickers, the son of a World War II U.S. Army sergeant who had married a Korean girl during the early postwar occupation. The sergeant suffered from a malaria-like jungle fever that he had contracted in a Japanese prison camp where his captors had refused him treatment. Fortunately, the disease had soon gone into remission, but in later years it came back to plague him time and again, finally resulting in his death in the fall of 1962. His widow had brought her fifteen-year-old son home to <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Korea</st1:place></st1:country-region>, where they lived with her parents.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">It was a chilling, gusty morning in late March when the Colonel approached Kim Vickers outside his grandparents' home in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Inchon</st1:place></st1:city>, the port city west of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Seoul</st1:place></st1:city>. The boy was rather small, with almond-shaped hazel eyes and a typically Korean oval face and high cheekbones. His only non-Eastern feature was the unruly shock of light brown hair bequeathed by his father, which lent him something of a caricaturish flair.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">Since his mother's "accident," he had more or less withdrawn from the world. He was reduced to being little more than a statistic, an anonymous blip on the radar screen of lost souls. He should have been in school, of course, but his grandparents were unsure of how to cope with this virtually silent, brooding boy. They decided not to push him, hoping their patience and concern would one day soon coax him out of that impenetrable shell.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">Approaching the youth outside his grandparents' home, the Colonel smiled and introduced himself.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">"<i>An-nyeng haseyo</i>," Kim replied.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">"You speak the language well," said the officer.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">"My mother taught me."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">"She was a school teacher?"<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">He shook his head sadly. "No, sir. But she wanted to be a teacher."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">The colonel nodded. "And you, what do you want to be?"<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">The boy averted his eyes, looking down at his dusty sneakers. He offered no reply.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">"Come now. You have grown up in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">America</st1:place></st1:country-region>. Surely you have some lofty ambition?"<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">Kim had never seen this man before. How did he know where I grew up, he wondered?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">And then it happened. Quite suddenly. As it had so many times since that fateful day. He tried to shut the distressing picture out of his mind, but, as always, failed. It flashed unbidden before his eyes, a scene as vivid as any on a movie screen. His mother standing beside him as they waited to cross the street outside the <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on"><i>seoul</i></st1:place></st1:city> <i>chunggochang</i>, the old railroad station that was one of the few major structures to survive the devastation of war. They were in the city for a shopping trip. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the group of Japanese tourists stroll up. His mother looked around at the stocky, bespectacled man in the stylish gray topcoat. Then, without warning, she bristled, began to tremble. And as he watched, transfixed, she stepped toward the man and began to pummel him with her fists, screaming almost incoherently. The words had been seared into Kim's brain as though inscribed by a torch. "It's you...you bastard! Monster! Savage!"<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">What happened next was like watching freeze frames etched in horror. As Kim looked on, the man shoved his mother into the street. He saw the bus rushing toward the curb, heard her piercing scream and the screech of brakes, the brutal crunch of metal colliding with flesh and bone.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">The Colonel saw the boy blinking, as though the wind had blown something into his eye. But when the soldier stooped down, he saw the tears welling up. He handed Kim a handkerchief.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">"I'm sorry, son. I read in the newspapers what happened to your mother."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">The story told how she had recognized the former Japanese soldier who had raped her in a secluded area of a <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Seoul</st1:place></st1:city>park back in the early days of World War II. She had stopped to gawk at the flowers and became lost from her friends. The occupying authorities had predictably dismissed her charge against the soldier. During the thirties, the Japanese had rounded up Korean women to serve as prostitutes for their troops. They threatened to send her off to the camps unless she kept her mouth shut and stopped "fabricating" such inflammatory charges.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">The ex-soldier was now a businessman in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Tokyo</st1:place></st1:city>, making his first trip back since the war. Heavily into its first Five-Year Economic Plan, the government of General Park Chung-hee had no desire for any incidents that might impede its efforts at cultivating export markets. With a little pressure from the executive mansion, known as the Blue House, the authorities declined to charge the Japanese visitor with murder, ruling that his actions had been provoked and were taken in self defense. It would have been easier to raise the dead than to resurrect the rape charge from twenty years ago.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">Standing beside the cluttered, windswept back street in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Inchon</st1:place></st1:city>, his imposing frame towering over the slight teenager, the Colonel spoke in a firm but persuasive voice. "You may have been born half-American, Kim Vickers, but believe me you are going to grow up a one-hundred-percent proud Korean. I have a mission for you to accomplish for us. But, first, we need to get you into a good school."<o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" /></span> <div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><br /></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">Fall 1993<o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;"><st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">Budapest</span></st1:city><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">, <st1:country-region w:st="on">Hungary</st1:country-region></span></st1:place><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">Chapter 1<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">September seemed an ideal time for Burke Hill to take his wife Lori on a long-delayed honeymoon trip to <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Hungary</st1:place></st1:country-region>. When they were married the previous December, the demands of his new job made leisure travel impossible. The visit to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Budapest</st1:place></st1:city>would be a strange sort of homecoming for the former Lorelei Quinn. She'd vowed to dig as deep as it took to uncover her hidden roots.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">By now the summer sultriness had mellowed into warm days and cool nights, a pleasant interlude the imaginative Magyars referred to as "old women's summer." It was Lori's first trip back since a near disaster at the hands of the communist-era secret police a decade ago. And though the recent demise of the Cold War soon convinced her of a renewed sense of vibrancy among the people in this onetime "<st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Paris</st1:place></st1:city>of the East," an incident at the airport terminal seemed disturbingly reminiscent of the bad old days.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">While she stood to one side waiting for Burke to claim their luggage, she noticed a man across the way watching him. He was swarthily handsome, with wavy black hair and a trim build. As he looked around, Lori averted her gaze to avoid any show of interest. When she looked back, his eyes were again locked on Burke. It took her back several years to her somewhat abbreviated career in the CIA, when that sort of surveillance presaged dire consequences. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">A few minutes later, Burke walked toward her pulling their two bags. She wanted to tell him about the watcher, but a tall redheaded man accompanied him.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">"John Dahlgren, meet my wife, Lori," he said. "As you can see, she's great with child."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">Lori grinned as she patted her rounded tummy. She was six months pregnant. "The ultrasound confirmed twins," she said. "This trip had to be taken now or delayed indefinitely. Dr. Bracken wasn't too happy about my traveling now, but I insisted."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">"Nice to meet you," Dahlgren said with a slight bow of his head. "I was a twin myself. Some people say it's double trouble, but I'm sure yours will be a delight."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">"John was on our flight," Burke said. "He's from <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York</st1:place></st1:state>. He's also staying at the Duna-Intercontinental, so I invited him to share a cab."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">Lori looked back before they left the terminal, but the muscular man with the persistent stare had disappeared.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">As soon as they reached their hotel room, she told Burke about the apparent surveillance.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">He stared at her, hands on his hips. "Who the devil could it have been? This is strictly a pleasure trip. Nobody should suspect I'm anything but a public relations company official on vacation."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">While Worldwide Communications Consultants, the firm he served as chief financial officer, was a legitimate international PR counselor, it had a black operations side that reported to the Central Intelligence Agency. Burke directed its activities in <st1:place w:st="on">Europe</st1:place>, <st1:place w:st="on">Asia</st1:place>, the <st1:place w:st="on">Middle East</st1:place> and <st1:place w:st="on">Far East</st1:place>.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">"I don't have any idea who he was," Lori said, "but he was sure giving you the once-over. I suggest we keep an eye out for any other signs of interest."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">By the afternoon of their second day, despite constant vigilance, they had spotted nothing out of the ordinary. Lori sat quietly in the back seat of an aging Zsiguli taxi, one of countless relics that persisted as the city struggled with its bootstraps. It rumbled noisily through the cobbled streets. Seated beside her, Burke studied his wife's troubled frown. It marred an attractive face with dark eyes and long dark hair that normally wreathed an intriguingly mysterious smile. Now past fifty-five, he was twenty years her senior. He still marveled at his incredibly good fortune in managing to win the love of this bright, vivacious young woman. But, at the moment, he grappled with a growing concern over her dark mood.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">He didn't need to be told the reason for it. "I hope you're prepared for disappointment in case things don't turn out the way you'd like," he said, a warning note in his voice. "There are plenty of reasons why people aren't always overjoyed at being confronted by a relative they never knew existed or hadn't seen in years."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">Their first day had been spent mostly at the American Embassy and the Justice Ministry, where they searched records of the old AVO, the hated state security police, for clues to the fate of Istvan Szabo, a young economist who had taken up the cause of his students during the ill-fated 1956 revolution known as the "Hungarian uprising." The files had likely been tampered with. At the very least, they were incomplete. What they did manage to learn was the name and address of his mother, Margit Szabo. Now nearing ninety, she had been one of <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Hungary</st1:place></st1:country-region>'s best loved actresses during her performing years.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">"I have my fingers crossed," Lori said, managing a weak smile.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">The cab crossed the glistening <st1:place w:st="on">Danube</st1:place> via the picturesque Chain Bridge and soon turned onto <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Budakeszi Avenue</st1:address></st1:street>, once a quiet residential street in the Buda hills. Now it was crowded with cars, trucks and buses. Where open green spaces had formerly separated the genteel old homes, newer, unimaginative flats dotted the landscape. It was one more indication of the internal struggle <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Budapest</st1:place></st1:city> was undergoing as it sought to be progressively modern and yet hold onto its <st1:place w:st="on">Old World</st1:place> charm.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">Lori took a firm grip on Burke's hand as the taxi turned in between two lofty chestnuts and stopped before an ancient iron gate. The driver got out and checked it, found it unlocked. He pushed the gate open, triggering a harsh metallic squeak, then drove onto a driveway that led back to a mercilessly weathered old garage. Beside it stood a large two-story house that seemed almost a living thing, cloaked as it was with a thick green coat of ivy.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">Burke paid the driver, and they walked slowly up to the front door. They were met by a short, shapeless woman in a simple peasant dress. She had obviously been alerted by the protesting screech of the gate. She eyed them with caution.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">"I'm Lorelei Hill and this is my husband, Burke," Lori said, unsure if the woman could understand her. They knew from the Hungarian clerk at the Embassy that Mrs. Szabo could speak English quite well, though with a pronounced accent, possibly the result of long disuse.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">The small woman, obviously a housekeeper, said nothing, but motioned them inside. They followed her into a large room that seemed foreboding in its gloomy darkness. Although the sun shone brightly outside, little of its glow penetrated the heavy curtains that shrouded the windows. A polished wooden table bearing old photographs of an actress costumed for various roles, pictures of a man and two boys, and other memorabilia of times long past sat at one side of the room. The opposite wall was hung with faded tapestries.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">And then Lori saw her, the aging figure of Margit Szabo, once the darling of the <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Budapest</st1:place></st1:city> stage. She sat in a large chair in one corner of the room. The housekeeper ushered them toward her. Despite her years, she sat stifly erect. She was dressed all in black. A large gold pendant hung from a chain draped around the spare flesh of her neck. Her hair was white but carefully groomed. She had the look of a piece of fine antique china, elegant features that could only have been fashioned by an accomplished artist, ostensibly delicate, but possessed of an inner strength that showed through the thin outer shell.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">"Please have a seat," Margit Szabo said in a surprisingly strong voice, gesturing toward the sofa across from her chair. "My voice and my hearing have not failed me, though I can't say as much for these old eyes. Tell me what it is you wish to speak with me about. I did not fully understand from your embassy."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">Lori knew the Embassy clerk had mentioned their visit concerned her son, Istvan Szabo. Since he had died in the failed revolution of November 1956, after Russian tanks poured into the streets of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Budapest</st1:place></st1:city>, just mentioning his name was bound to bring back agonizing memories.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">"My name is Lorelei Hill," she began, then paused somewhat awkwardly, conscious that Mrs. Szabo was well aware of who she was. "What I mean is, that was the name my dad...uh, actually, my stepfather..."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">It wasn't going at all as she had intended. She had gone over in her mind a hundred times what she wanted to say at this moment. But now her tongue was stumbling all over the words. She had planned to lead up gently to the key revelation, not wanting it to come as a sudden shock. Instead, it tumbled out in a heedless rush of words.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">"What I'm trying to say, Mrs. Szabo, I believe I am your granddaughter."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">Now that it was out, she felt a sudden wave of relief. Until the elderly woman spoke.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">Margit Szabo delivered her lines with all the force and drama of a character from a Shakespearean tragedy. "You are not my granddaughter. My granddaughter died at birth, and her mother with her."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">Lori took a sharp breath. It had hit her like a knife plunged deeply and twisted.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">"But...but that was only a story made up to fool the AVO," she said in protest. "My dad, that is, my stepfather, Cameron Quinn, was with the Central Intelligence Agency. He had been in contact with your son, Istvan, to keep up with what was going on. To help if possible. Your son asked—"<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">"Yes, he helped," Mrs. Szabo broke in. "The police knew my son had been in contact with a CIA agent. They gave him a summary trial and executed him."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">Lori's eyes widened. "How do you know—?"<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">"Istvan's brother," she said, her voice suddenly lowered, her eyes beginning to blink back the tears. "Gyorgy was with the AVO." For the first time, a crack had appeared in the old woman's hard shell. "Gyorgy told me. He was powerless to stop what happened. He was not a bad boy, Gyorgy. Only misguided."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">Lori shook her head in despair, sensing the torment that must have plagued Margit Szabo, her grandmother. "I'm so sorry," she said.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">One son a patriot who gave his life in the fight for freedom, the other son a communist collaborator whose secret police colleagues were responsible for his brother's death. Perhaps he had not been completely blameless himself, despite his mother's attempt to absolve him. It was a tragic dichotomy the aging actress had lived with all these years.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">It might be, Lori thought, that she could find out more about her real father from his brother. "Where is Gyorgy now?" she asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">Tears coursed down Mrs. Szabo's anguished face. She dabbed at them with a small kerchief. "Gyorgy is gone, too. My husband, all of my family are gone. What do you want of me? Why did you come here to torment me with these painful memories so long put to rest?"<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">Lori was suddenly on her knees at Margit Szabo's feet. She spoke in a pleading voice. "But I am your granddaughter. I must be. My stepfather told me what happened after my mother...my stepmother's death. She was in the same hospital as Istvan's wife, on the same floor for a hysterectomy. Istvan was afraid the AVO might take some action against his wife. He asked Cameron Quinn to look after the baby if anything happened. When they came for my real mother, he arranged with the doctor and a hospital official to switch the records to show that I had been born to Julia Quinn. They indicated my real mother had a stillborn. The AVO probably changed the records to say my mother died during childbirth. But she was alive when they took her from the hospital."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">The old woman had closed her eyes as soon as Lori approached, as if, not seeing, she could safely deny something she was unprepared to accept. She shook her head. "I have no granddaughter," she said in a choking voice. "My family is all gone. I am alone. Please go and leave me with what memories I still possess."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">Lori looked up, tears streaming down her cheeks. She could not get through to this tragic, aging figure. It had all been in vain, the trip over here, the day of digging through the AVO files, a fruitless search for a past that must remain forever buried in the graveyard of Margit Szabo's splintered dreams.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">Then Mrs. Szabo's wrinkled lids cracked open, like an ancient turtle preparing to peer out of its shell. Lori saw the weary eyes stare down at her, as if really seeing her for the first time. A frail hand reached out, a shaky finger traced the line of her nose, touched her lips.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">"You are a reincarnation of my son, Istvan," she murmured.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">Lori buried her face in her grandmother's lap as the old woman leaned down and kissed her cheek.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">Intrigued? Buy the book and you won't be disappointed.&nbsp;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Michael</span><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;Haskins&nbsp;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div></div>Michael Haskinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01542564372760690584noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7606145013695548285.post-54491103691851941982013-01-22T12:22:00.002-05:002013-01-22T12:22:40.865-05:00Blog Hop - Fred Lichtenberg<br /><div class="MsoNormal">THE NEXT BIG THING BLOG HOP <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Welcome to this blog hop.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">What is a blog hop? Basically, it’s a way that readers can discover new authors, because with bookstores closing and publishers not promoting new authors as much, we need to find a way to introduce readers to authors they may not see in their local bookstore.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Here you have the chance to find many new authors. And, you’ll find information about me, what I’m working on now, GOOD LUCK BAD LUCK, an outrageous and zany story about two unlikely protagonists, an eighty-year woman and former schoolteacher, and a thirty five year old ex-con following a botched car theft. The story has all the trappings of South Florida: pill clinics, Medicare fraud, stolen medical equipment, and a good old Ponzi scheme. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Fred Lichtenberg is the author of <i>Hunter’s World</i>, who novelist Alice Duncan called ‘a fast-paced, fascinating mystery. Highly recommended.’ Lichtenberg’s second mystery, <i>Double Trouble,</i> brings the reader to the dark world of mistaken identity when one of the identical twins separated at birth discovers his birth twin was a hit man for the mob who also stole diamonds from his boss. Not a good time to be the wrong twin. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I’d like to thank fellow author Michael Haskins for tagging me to participate. Click the link below to find out about Michael’s Mick Murphy series. www.michaelhaskins.com.<b><o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal">In this particular hop, my fellow authors and I,&nbsp;in&nbsp;their&nbsp;respective blogs, have answered 10 questions where you get to learn about&nbsp;our&nbsp;current work in progress as well as some insights into our process,&nbsp;from&nbsp;characters and inspirations to plotting and cover decisions. I hope&nbsp;you&nbsp;enjoy it!<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Please feel&nbsp;free&nbsp;to comment and share your thoughts and questions. Here is my Next Big Thing!<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">1: What is the working title of your book?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">My current release is <i>Double Trouble. </i>My next book, due out in 2013, is <i>Good Luck Bad Luck.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal">2: Where did the idea come from for the book?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The idea for <i>Double Trouble</i> came from my interest in the psychology of identical twins separated at birth. Researching, I discovered that identical twins not only have identical features but also generally have the same sensibilities. However, environmental changes, such as upbringing, can produce two different individuals. In my case, one twin is a washed out detective, the other a hit man for the mob. When you toss in the mistaken identity component like stealing diamonds from your boss, the other twin will have a lot of explaining, running, and dodging bullets.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">3: What genre does your book come under?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Mystery/thriller, though my next book, <i>Good Luck Bad Luck</i> is more Carl <span style="color: #1a2732; mso-bidi-font-size: 7.0pt;">Hiaasen</span> and Elmore Leonard.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">4: Which actors would you choose to play your characters in&nbsp;a&nbsp;movie rendition?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">For my main character, Hank Reed, in <i>Hunter’s World</i>, I would love to see Matthew McConaughey play the role. I immediately thought of him after seeing his vulnerability side in The Lincoln Lawyer. As for my main actress, Maggie, I would love to see Callie Thorne, the terrific actress in the TV series Rescue Me. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">5: What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Hunter’s World:</i> Relationships can be deadly.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Double Trouble</i>: The sacrifice for family redemption. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">6: Is your book self-published, published by an independent publisher, or represented by an&nbsp;agency? <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Five Star, a traditional publisher, published <i>Hunter’s World</i>.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Double Trouble</i>, released<i> </i>in June 2012, is<i> </i>an e-Book and a trade paperback on Amazon.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">7: How long did it take you to write the first draft of your&nbsp;manuscript?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I generally get the first draft completed within six months, but after it’s nice and pretty with the help of an editor and cover designer, the book is ready in one year. Using a traditional publisher takes longer, sometimes eighteen months from signing a contract to publication. My eBook, <i>Double Trouble</i>, was completed and out the door in less than a year.&nbsp; <br /><!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br /><!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">8: What other books would you compare <i>Hunter’s World</i> to within&nbsp;your&nbsp;genre?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">In terms of style probably some of John Grisham’s earlier works like <i>The Firm</i>. And Scott Turow’s <i>Presumed Innocent</i>.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">9: Who or what inspired you to write your books?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I realized that I was a pretty good storyteller from a young age. As a teenager, I read only mysteries and thrillers. So once I gave writing serious consideration, I chose those genres.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">10: What else about your book might pique the reader’s&nbsp;interest?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">Aside from the locales (South Florida/New York City to name a few), my readers are treated to fast-paced chapters with hooks, and surprising endings. Judging from my readers’ feedback, I have not disappointed them.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div>Michael Haskinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01542564372760690584noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7606145013695548285.post-21908283589336180152013-01-02T00:30:00.000-05:002013-01-02T00:30:01.859-05:00The Next Big Think Blog Hop<br /><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Welcome to this blog hop.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">What is a blog hop? Basically, it’s a way that readers can discover new authors, because with bookstores closing and publishers not promoting new authors as much, we need to find a way to introduce readers to authors they may not see in their local bookstore.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">Here you have the chance to find many new authors. And, you’ll find information about me, what I’m working on now, KEY WEST LATITUDE, the 7<sup>th</sup> book in my Mick Murphy series,&nbsp;five&nbsp;of them are set in Key West, two on the West Coast, LA &amp; Tijuana, Mexico. Library Journal Reviews said, “The latest Mick Murphy thriller (Car Wash Blues) delivers abundant action, car chases, boat chases, and an alphabet soup of weapons. Toss in some subterfuge and a brewing hurricane, and you’ve got the perfect beach read. While lighter than T. Jefferson Parker, Haskins explores similar themes.”&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">I’d like to thank fellow author Beth Terrell-Hicks for tagging me to participate. Click the link below to find out about Beth’s Jared McKean Mysteries go to </span><a href="http://www.elizabethterrell.com/"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">www.elizabethterrell.com</span></a><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"> . <b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">In this particular hop, my fellow authors and I,&nbsp;in&nbsp;their&nbsp;respective blogs, have answered 10 questions where you get to learn about&nbsp;our&nbsp;current work in progress as well as some insights into our process,&nbsp;from&nbsp;characters and inspirations to plotting and cover decisions. I hope&nbsp;you&nbsp;enjoy it!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">Please feel&nbsp;free&nbsp;to comment and share your thoughts and questions. Here is my Next Big Thing!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">1: What is the working title of your book?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">My current release is <i>Car Wash Blues</i>, my next book, due in a few months, is <i>Key West Latitude</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">2: Where did the idea come from for the book?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">The idea for <i>Car Wash Blues</i> came from my following the drug war in Mexico for many years. I spent a lot of time in Tijuana, Mexico, and have friends there. I found a way, betrayal of trust, to bring one cartel to Key West, looking for Murphy and the second cartel tries to find Murphy to keep the first one from retrieving the $20 million it believes Murphy stole from them. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">Key West Latitude is the follow up from <i>Stairway to the Bottom</i>. It’s a lot different from my other books – same characters in my series A Mick Murphy Key West Mystery – in that it begins outside Key West and in Norm’s voice (Norm being my secondary main character). When the story weaves its way back to Key West, Mick Murphy begins to tell it. It is also about friendship and what real friendship will endure. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">3: What genre does your book come under?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">Mystery/thriller. Today, I believe, both genres have overlapped.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">4: Which actors would you choose to play your characters in&nbsp;a&nbsp;movie rendition?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">Mick Murphy would need a Boston actor like Ben Affleck, or an unknown Boston actor like Affleck used to be. The accent has to be real. Norm, someone like Bruce Campbell from TV’s Burn Notice, Tita I’ve always imagined as either Cote de Pablo or Angie Harmon. Hopefully, they’ll fight over who gets the part!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">5: What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">Car Wash Blues</span></i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">: The betrayal of trust amongst friends.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">Key West Latitude</span></i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">: What real friendship will endure between those that share it.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">6: Is your book self-published, published by an independent publisher, or represented by an&nbsp;agency? <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">Car Wash Blues</span></i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"> is from Five Star, a traditional publisher.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">Key West Latitude</span></i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"> will be an eBook and a trade paperback on Amazon.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">7: How long did it take you to write the first draft of your&nbsp;manuscript?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">I usually spend a year per book from beginning to end. My eBooks go to an editor and cover designer. Once edited and cover designed, publication comes much quicker than a traditional publisher. It took almost two years for <i>Car Wash Blues</i>to be traditionally published. <i>Stairway to the Bottom</i> was edited, the cover designed and online for sale as an eBook and trade paperback on Amazon in less than six weeks.&nbsp;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">8: What other books would you compare this story to within&nbsp;your&nbsp;genre?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">9: Who or what inspired you to write this book?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">All my writing, including my shorts stories, have been written because I enjoy telling a story and by putting stories in writing, I reach a lot more than I would telling the same story over and over at one of the local watering holes. Hopefully, my books and short stories will be available long after I’ve gone.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">10: What else about your book might pique the reader’s&nbsp;interest? &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">I’ve kept true to the island and city of Key West in my writing. People who have visited, and even locals, tell me that certain chapters reminds them of something or other about the bar or restaurant or street. If you’ve been to Key West, you know the locale I’m writing about and if you haven’t you might want to come after reading one of the books.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">Below you will find authors who will be joining me by&nbsp;blogging, next Wednesday. Do be sure to bookmark and add them to your calendars for&nbsp;updates&nbsp;on WIPs and New Releases! Happy Writing and Reading!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">1.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">Don Bruns – www.donbrunsbooks.com<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">2.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">Deb Sharp – www.deborahsharp.com<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">3.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">Fred Lichtenberg – </span><a href="http://www.fredlichtenberg.com/"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">www.fredlichtenberg.com</span></a><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">4.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">Mel Jacob – </span><a href="http://www.neilduvall.com/"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">www.neilduvall.com</span></a><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">5.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">&nbsp;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.25in;"><br /></div>Michael Haskinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01542564372760690584noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7606145013695548285.post-81017102117565186062012-11-24T15:00:00.002-05:002012-11-24T15:00:09.562-05:00Post Cold War Political ThrillerMy friend, and fellow writer, Chester Campbell has just released his 2nd Cold War book, The Poksu Conspiracy. His first of the trilogy, Beware the Jabberwock, was well received and when you read either you'll want the next.<br /><br />Chester has permitted me to run the first chapter of The Poksu Conspiracy for you. Enjoy and you can order his book at Amazon.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9MB5_47rEuw/ULEnN21-8CI/AAAAAAAAAZU/DQ7sdShwlZg/s1600/PoksuCover-web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9MB5_47rEuw/ULEnN21-8CI/AAAAAAAAAZU/DQ7sdShwlZg/s320/PoksuCover-web.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><br /><br /><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">Budapest, Hungary &nbsp; Chapter 1<o:p></o:p></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">September seemed an ideal time for Burke Hill to take his wife Lori on a long-delayed honeymoon trip to Hungary. When they were married the previous December, the demands of his new job made leisure travel impossible. The visit to Budapest would be a strange sort of homecoming for the former Lorelei Quinn. She’d vowed to dig as deep as it took to uncover her hidden roots. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">By now the summer sultriness had mellowed into warm days and cool nights, a pleasant interlude the imaginative Magyars referred to as “old women’s summer.” It was Lori’s first trip back since a near disaster at the hands of the communist-era secret police a decade ago. And though the recent demise of the Cold War soon convinced her of a renewed sense of vibrancy among the people in this onetime “Paris of the East,” an incident at the airport terminal seemed disturbingly reminiscent of the bad old days. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">While she stood to one side waiting for Burke to claim their luggage, she noticed a man across the way watching him. He was swarthily handsome, with wavy black hair and a trim build. As he looked around, Lori averted her gaze to avoid any show of interest. When she looked back, his eyes were again locked on Burke. It took her back several years to her somewhat abbreviated career in the CIA, when that sort of surveillance presaged dire consequences. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">A few minutes later, Burke walked toward her pulling their two bags. She wanted to tell him about the watcher, but a tall redheaded man accompanied him. “John Dahlgren, meet my wife, Lori,” he said. “As you can see, she’s great with child.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;Lori grinned as she patted her rounded tummy. She was six months pregnant. “The ultrasound confirmed twins,” she said. “This trip had to be taken now or delayed indefinitely. Dr. Bracken wasn’t too happy about my traveling now, but I insisted.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Nice to meet you,” Dahlgren said with a slight bow of his head. “I was a twin myself. Some people say it’s double trouble, but I’m sure yours will be a delight.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“John was on our flight,” Burke said. “He’s from New York. He’s also staying at the Duna-Intercontinental, so I invited him to share a cab.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Lori looked back before they left the terminal, but the muscular man with the persistent stare had disappeared. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;As soon as they reached their hotel room, she told Burke about the apparent surveillance. &nbsp;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; He stared at her, hands on his hips. “Who the devil could it have been? This is strictly a pleasure trip. Nobody should suspect I’m anything but a public relations company official on vacation.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">While Worldwide Communications Consultants, the firm he served as chief financial officer, was a legitimate international PR counselor, it had a black operations side that reported to the Central Intelligence Agency. Burke directed its activities in Europe, Asia, the Middle East and Far East. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“I don’t have any idea who he was,” Lori said, “but he was sure giving you the once-over. I suggest we keep an eye out for any other signs of interest.” &nbsp; <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">By the afternoon of their second day, despite constant vigilance, they had spotted nothing out of the ordinary. Lori sat quietly in the back seat of an aging Zsiguli taxi, one of countless relics that persisted as the city struggled with its bootstraps. It rumbled noisily through the cobbled streets. Seated beside her, Burke studied his wife’s troubled frown. It marred an attractive face with dark eyes and long dark hair that normally wreathed an intriguingly mysterious smile. Now past fifty-five, he was twenty years her senior. He still marveled at his incredibly good fortune in managing to win the love of this bright, vivacious young woman. But, at the moment, he grappled with a growing concern over her dark mood. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">He didn’t need to be told the reason for it.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">“I hope you’re prepared for disappointment in case things don’t turn out the way you’d like,” he said, a warning note in his voice. “There are plenty of reasons why people aren’t always overjoyed at being confronted by a relative they never knew existed or hadn’t seen in years.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">Their first day had been spent mostly at the American Embassy and the Justice Ministry, where they searched records of the old AVO, the hated state security police, for clues to the fate of Istvan Szabo, a young economist who had taken up the cause of his students during the ill-fated 1956 revolution known as the “Hungarian uprising.” The files had likely been tampered with. At the very least, they were incomplete. What they did manage to learn was the name and address of his mother, Margit Szabo. Now nearing ninety, she had been one of Hungary’s best loved actresses during her performing years. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“I have my fingers crossed,” Lori said, managing a weak smile. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The cab crossed the glistening Danube via the picturesque Chain Bridge and soon turned onto Budakeszi Avenue, once a quiet residential street in the Buda hills. Now it was crowded with cars, trucks and buses. Where open green spaces had formerly separated the genteel old homes, newer, unimaginative flats dotted the landscape. It was one more indication of the internal struggle Budapest was undergoing as it sought to be progressively modern and yet hold onto its Old World charm. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Lori took a firm grip on Burke’s hand as the taxi turned in between two lofty chestnuts and stopped before an ancient iron gate. The driver got out and checked it, found it unlocked. He pushed the gate open, triggering a harsh metallic squeak, then drove onto a driveway that led back to a mercilessly weathered old garage. Beside it stood a large two-story house that seemed almost a living thing, cloaked as it was with a thick green coat of ivy. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Burke paid the driver, and they walked slowly up to the front door. They were met by a short, shapeless woman in a simple peasant dress. She had obviously been alerted by the protesting screech of the gate. She eyed them with caution. &nbsp; <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">“I’m Lorelei Hill and this is my husband, Burke,” Lori said, unsure if the woman could understand her. They knew from the Hungarian clerk at the Embassy that Mrs. Szabo could speak English quite well, though with a pronounced accent, possibly the result of long disuse. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">The small woman, obviously a housekeeper, said nothing, but motioned them inside. They followed her into a large room that seemed foreboding in its gloomy darkness. Although the sun shone brightly outside, little of its glow penetrated the heavy curtains that shrouded the windows. A polished wooden table bearing old photographs of an actress costumed for various roles, pictures of a man and two boys, and other memorabilia of times long past sat at one side of the room. The opposite wall was hung with faded tapestries.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">And then Lori saw her, the aging figure of Margit Szabo, once the darling of the Budapest stage. She sat in a large chair in one corner of the room. The housekeeper ushered them toward her. Despite her years, she sat stifly erect. She was dressed all in black. A large gold pendant hung from a chain draped around the spare flesh of her neck. Her hair was white but carefully groomed. She had the look of a piece of fine antique china, elegant features that could only have been fashioned by an accomplished artist, ostensibly delicate, but possessed of an inner strength that showed through the thin outer shell. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Please have a seat,” Margit Szabo said in a surprisingly strong voice, gesturing toward the sofa across from her chair. “My voice and my hearing have not failed me, though I can’t say as much for these old eyes. Tell me what it is you wish to speak with me about. I did not fully understand from your embassy.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;Lori knew the Embassy clerk had mentioned their visit concerned her son, Istvan Szabo. Since he had died in the failed revolution of November 1956, after Russian tanks poured into the streets of Budapest, just mentioning his name was bound to bring back agonizing memories. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“My name is Lorelei Hill,” she began, then paused somewhat awkwardly, conscious that Mrs. Szabo was well aware of who she was. “What I mean is, that was the name my dad... uh, actually, my stepfather...” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">It wasn’t going at all as she had intended. She had gone over in her mind a hundred times what she wanted to say at this moment. But now her tongue was stumbling all over the words. She had planned to lead up gently to the key revelation, not wanting it to come as a sudden shock. Instead, it tumbled out in a heedless rush of words.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;“What I’m trying to say, Mrs. Szabo, I believe I am your granddaughter.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">Now that it was out, she felt a sudden wave of relief. Until the elderly woman spoke. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Margit Szabo delivered her lines with all the force and drama of a character from a Shakespearean tragedy. “You are not my granddaughter. My granddaughter died at birth, and her mother with her.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Lori took a sharp breath. It had hit her like a knife plunged deeply and twisted.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;“But... but that was only a story made up to fool the AVO,” she said in protest. “My dad, that is, my stepfather, Cameron Quinn, was with the Central Intelligence Agency. He had been in contact with your son, Istvan, to keep up with what was going on. To help if possible. Your son asked—” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yes, he helped,” Mrs. Szabo broke in. “The police knew my son had been in contact with a CIA agent. They gave him a summary trial and executed him.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Lori’s eyes widened. “How do you know—?” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Istvan’s brother,” she said, her voice suddenly lowered, her eyes beginning to blink back the tears.&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Gyorgy was with the AVO.” For the first time, a crack had appeared in the old woman’s hard shell.&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Gyorgy told me. He was powerless to stop what happened. He was not a bad boy, Gyorgy. Only&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal">misguided.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Lori shook her head in despair, sensing the torment that must have plagued Margit Szabo, her grandmother. “I’m so sorry,” she said. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">One son a patriot who gave his life in the fight for freedom, the other son a communist collaborator whose secret police colleagues were responsible for his brother’s death. Perhaps he had not been completely blameless himself, despite his mother’s attempt to absolve him. It was a tragic dichotomy the aging actress had lived with all these years. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">It might be, Lori thought, that she could find out more about her real father from his brother. “Where is Gyorgy now?” she asked. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">Tears coursed down Mrs. Szabo’s anguished face. She dabbed at them with a small kerchief. “Gyorgy is gone, too. My husband, all of my family are gone. What do you want of me? Why did you come here to torment me with these painful memories so long put to rest?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;Lori was suddenly on her knees at Margit Szabo’s feet. She spoke in a pleading voice. “But I am your granddaughter. I must be. My stepfather told me what happened after my mother... my stepmother’s death. She was in the same hospital as Istvan’s wife, on the same floor for a hysterectomy. Istvan was afraid the AVO might take some action against his wife. He asked Cameron Quinn to look after the baby if anything happened. When they came for my real mother, he arranged with the doctor and a hospital official to switch the records to show that I had been born to Julia Quinn. They indicated my real mother had a stillborn. The AVO probably changed the records to say my mother died during childbirth. But she was alive when they took her from the hospital.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The old woman had closed her eyes as soon as Lori approached, as if, not seeing, she could safely deny something she was unprepared to accept. She shook her head. “I have no granddaughter,” she said in a choking voice. “My family is all gone. I am alone. Please go and leave me with what memories I still possess.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Lori looked up, tears streaming down her cheeks. She could not get through to this tragic, aging figure. It had all been in vain, the trip over here, the day of digging through the AVO files, a fruitless search for a past that must remain forever buried in the graveyard of Margit Szabo’s splintered dreams. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Then Mrs. Szabo’s wrinkled lids cracked open, like an ancient turtle preparing to peer out of its shell. Lori saw the weary eyes stare down at her, as if really seeing her for the first time. A frail hand reached out, a shaky finger traced the line of her nose, touched her lips.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“You are a reincarnation of my son, Istvan,” she murmured. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Lori buried her face in her grandmother’s lap as the old woman leaned down and kissed her cheek.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br /></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><br /><br />Michael Haskinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01542564372760690584noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7606145013695548285.post-62818777772855563202012-11-10T08:25:00.000-05:002012-11-11T17:35:18.479-05:00Books & Bars A couple of weeks ago, Jimmy Buffett's ParrotHead Clubs held its Meeting of the Minds (MOTM) here in Key West. They've come for the past years the first week of November and it makes for a wild, colorful weekend of Trop Rock music in my favorite bars and some strange men and women in colorful clothing and hats! Less hats this year, but a lot of tropical shirts and dresses.<br /><br />My friend, and fellow writer, John Cunningham arranged a MOTM sanctioned book signing at the Smokin' Tuna Saloon and invited me to join him. I did one last year, at the invite of singer-songwriter Scott Kirby (I used his song title <i>Free Range Institution</i> for one of my KW mysteries). I didn't do too well and learned that books and bars don't mix. Not in my case, anyway. I did give away a lot of bookmarks and saw a bump in my Kindle sales a week to ten-days later.<br /><br />We set up at 1 pm &nbsp;on a Friday at the Tuna, and that lead me right into the saloon's North of Havana, Cigar Club Social, that we hold most Friday happy hours. I think I sold six books and I'm not sure John did much better. People drinking and/or having a good time do not want the responsibility of carting a book around. It's a lesson learned, I think. I think John might have learned the same lesson too.<br /><br />John's second book in his Key West series has just been released: <i>Green to Go</i>. The series featuring disgraced financier Buck Reilly, is a good read. I think John has a hit on his hands. His books are available on Amazon as Kindle and trade paperback, just like mine are. www.michaelhaskins.net.<br /><br />Here's a little more about <i>Green to Go.</i><br /><i><br /></i><br /><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="punctuation-wrap: hanging; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-font-kerning: 0pt;"><i>GREEN TO GO </i><o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="punctuation-wrap: hanging; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-font-kerning: 0pt;">synopsis<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="punctuation-wrap: hanging; text-indent: .5in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="punctuation-wrap: hanging; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-font-kerning: 0pt;">Buck Reilly went to hell and back in Red Right Return. In Green To Go, it’s a one-way trip. Good news turns bad fast, and the bad just keeps coming in this thrilling new Buck Reilly adventure. The unexpected contents of his parent’s Swiss bank account offer Buck a chance to dig himself out of the hole he’s been in since the recession hit, but first he must recover the treasure maps and clues he lost at sea. Those plans get put on hold when a friend is accused of orchestrating the biggest theft in Key West’s sordid history, and the FBI uses Buck's past against him to demand that he search for the thieves who fled aboard a hundred year-old schooner.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="punctuation-wrap: hanging; text-indent: .5in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="punctuation-wrap: hanging; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-font-kerning: 0pt;">No good deed goes unpunished, and Buck’s dogged by greed and double-crosses from Key West to the Bahamas and points south. His hunt for the missing treasure pits him against a crazed mercenary, Peruvian rebels, rogue Cuban Secret Police and a beautiful woman torn between turning Buck over to the authorities or succumbing to his charm.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Buck Reilly wants only three things out of life: A plane to fly, a treasure to find, and a beautiful woman to rescue. He got his chance at all three in the first of John H. Cunningham’s thriller series, RED RIGHT RETURN, but those interests get turned against him in GREEN TO GO. Set against the stunning scenery and freaky fabulousness of the Florida Keys, Cunningham joins the ranks of Carl Hiaasen, Randy Wayne White and Papa himself in a rich new series for thrill seekers everywhere. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">But Buck Reilly’s no ordinary hero. A product of his times and ours, too, he’s laying low and trying to fly under the radar in the aftermath of economic catastrophe. Back in his bad old days on Wall Street, Buck ran e-Antiquity, plundering the world’s treasures, (and a few of his investors’ pockets) for some pretty handsome profit. He wasn’t a bad guy back then, he just didn’t know any better. But life turned ugly when the market crashed, the company cratered and the FBI investigated the bankruptcy. When his marriage ended and his parents were killed in a car crash, Buck found out for certain that business wasn’t just business anymore.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">These days, Buck’s a lot like the rest of us—trying to make ends meet and hoping for better times. He operates The Last Resort Charter and Salvage Company, flying a 1946 amphibious Grumman Widgeon, hunting for sunken treasure and taking on an occasional passenger, no questions asked. But when he faces down the dark forces of Santero priests, the underbelly of the Havana underworld and a pissed-off FBI agent, Buck has nothing but ingenuity, guts and his ancient flying boat to save his skin, and the lives he put in peril. GREEN TO GO is the second book in the series.&nbsp;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">For more information see: <a href="http://www.jhcunningham.com/">www.jhcunningham.com</a>or find John on Facebook and Twitter.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6JlMwCAAocw/UJ5VI3eLJWI/AAAAAAAAAY4/um-m5hrH7GE/s1600/Michael+&amp;+John+Cunningham+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6JlMwCAAocw/UJ5VI3eLJWI/AAAAAAAAAY4/um-m5hrH7GE/s320/Michael+&amp;+John+Cunningham+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JjwCX9G_kew/UJ5VRSP5blI/AAAAAAAAAZA/QG_q9LoW4ac/s1600/Green_to_Go_COVER.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JjwCX9G_kew/UJ5VRSP5blI/AAAAAAAAAZA/QG_q9LoW4ac/s320/Green_to_Go_COVER.jpg" width="215" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span></div><br /><i><br /></i>Michael Haskinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01542564372760690584noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7606145013695548285.post-12192277296182777092012-10-24T21:15:00.001-04:002012-10-24T21:16:25.033-04:00Timothy Hallinan's CRASHED<br /><div class="MsoNormal">My friend Tim Hallinan's CRACKED has been released by SOHO CRIME to great reviews. Below is the press release from SOHO. If you like PI novels, you're gonna love this series.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br /></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>AS SEEN IN </i><i><span style="color: #505050; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;"><a href="http://sohopress.us5.list-manage.com/track/click?u=e4c524003dc39360b21652cfb&amp;id=2aed3a582e&amp;e=e430ccfa2c"><span style="color: blue; mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">VARIETY</span></a></span></i><i>, </i><i><span style="color: #505050; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;"><a href="http://sohopress.us5.list-manage.com/track/click?u=e4c524003dc39360b21652cfb&amp;id=5ae7fe4419&amp;e=e430ccfa2c"><span style="color: blue; mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">CINEMA BLEND</span></a></span></i><i>, AND </i><i><span style="color: #505050; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;"><a href="http://sohopress.us5.list-manage.com/track/click?u=e4c524003dc39360b21652cfb&amp;id=0957259bc0&amp;e=e430ccfa2c" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue; mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">PUBLISHERS WEEKLY</span></a></span></i><i>,<o:p></o:p></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><i>TIMOTHY HALLINAN’S HILARIOUS JUNIOR BENDER MYSTERY SERIES<o:p></o:p></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><i>COMES TO SOHO CRIME<o:p></o:p></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><i>“A MODERN SUCCESSOR TO RAYMOND CHANDLER.”</i><i><span style="color: #505050; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;"><br /></span></i><b><i><span style="color: #505050; font-family: &quot;Arial&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">̶ </span></i></b><b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 150%;">LOS ANGELES DAILY NEWS</span></i></b><span style="color: #505050; font-family: &quot;Arial&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></i></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-m0bjUdWOFmI/UIiSnyq4-LI/AAAAAAAAAYQ/JBeUPy18Jf8/s1600/crashed+cover+from+soho.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-m0bjUdWOFmI/UIiSnyq4-LI/AAAAAAAAAYQ/JBeUPy18Jf8/s320/crashed+cover+from+soho.jpg" width="216" /></a></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: 0in;"><a href="http://sohopress.us5.list-manage2.com/track/click?u=e4c524003dc39360b21652cfb&amp;id=8c576b0d0c&amp;e=e430ccfa2c"></a><b>Sometimes Crooks Need a P.I. of Their Own</b><br /><br />Junior Bender may be the smartest guy in Tinseltown, and he’s well aware of it. Living in a different motel every night, and with ears turned to the proverbial ground, Junior is always one step ahead of everyone. You see, Junior Bender is a very talented burglar. He’s the sort who knows the difference between a real Paul Klee and a real bad deal. But LA’s smug prince of thieves is about to find himself stuck with just that: a deal so raw that even a ravenous guard dog would turn up its nose.<br /><br />After committing a routine burglary involving the aforementioned Klee (which he was hired to steal) and a diamond necklace (which he just had to have), Junior thinks he’s pulled the perfect caper once again. This time, he's wrong.<br /><br />Trey Annunziato, one of the most powerful crime bosses in LA, has caught Junior on film only to blackmail him into acting as a private investigator on the set of Trey's new porn flick, which someone keeps trying to sabotage. The star of Trey's adult movie was formerly America's most beloved child actor, Thistle Downing. Thistle, now living alone in a drug-induced stupor, is destitute and uninsurable. Her starring role will be the scandalous fall-from-grace gossip of rubberneckers across the country. No wonder Trey needs help keeping the production on track.<br /><br />Junior knows what he should do—get Thistle out and find her help—but doing the right thing will land him on the wrong side of LA's scariest mob boss. With the help of his precocious twelve-year-old daughter, Rina, and his criminal sidekick, Louie the Lost (an ex-getaway driver who, er, got lost while driving getaway), Junior has to figure out a miracle solution. Then again, he <i>is </i>supposed to be the smartest guy in Hollywood.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: 0in;"><b>“JUNIOR BENDER</b><b><span style="color: #505050; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;"> ̶ </span></b><b>A CROOK WITH A HEART OF GOLD </b><b><span style="color: #505050; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">̶ </span></b><b>IS ONE OF HALLINAN'S MOST APPEALING HEROES, RICH WITH INVENTION, AND BRIMMING WITH CLASSIC WIT.”</b><span style="color: #505050; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;"><br /></span><b><i>̶ </i></b><b>SHADOE STEVENS<i>, LATE LATE SHOW WITH CRAIG FERGUSON</i></b><span style="color: #505050; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div>Michael Haskinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01542564372760690584noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7606145013695548285.post-80633113426033099052012-10-06T11:47:00.001-04:002012-10-06T11:47:43.310-04:00Scoundrel by Jochem Vandersteen<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My friend, and fellow mystery writer, Jochem Vandersteen has just put his novelette "Scoundrel" on Amazon for $1.50. It's a continuation of his long-running Noah Milano series. Below is the cover and the first chapter. It would be a good addition to your eLibrary and, if you are already a fan, a good addition to your Noah Milano collection.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Know you'll like it!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Michael</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UNBbQYFVAY4/UHBRlzL3isI/AAAAAAAAAXE/XUNoAxoNIqI/s1600/Scoundrel_Noah_Milano.jpeg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="276" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UNBbQYFVAY4/UHBRlzL3isI/AAAAAAAAAXE/XUNoAxoNIqI/s320/Scoundrel_Noah_Milano.jpeg.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 48pt;"><br /></span></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 48pt;"><br /></span></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 48pt;">scoundrel<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;"><b><span lang="EN-GB">A Noah Milano Novelette<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;"><br /></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB">Copyright 2012 Jochem Vandersteen<o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB">Edited by Sean Dexter<o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB">Cover by Big Kiss Productions</span><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br /></div><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Dark Courier'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" /></span> <div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;</span><b style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">ONE</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">Marisa Fawkes was a good-looking young woman in her thirties. I almost wolf-whistled when she walked into my office. A cascade of brown curls framed a face with smooth skin, clear blue eyes, full lips and nice teeth. She was also very pregnant. Good-looking women always got me into trouble, so I should’ve known better and shouldn’t have taken her case. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">She took a seat in the client chair in front of my desk. I sat down<span style="color: #c00000;">, too.</span> She told me a story as old as time and one that I'd heard too many times before. She'd met a handsome young man in a club called <i>Peaches </i>on the Strip. She'd taken him to her home and they'd had sex. A few months later she found out she was pregnant. She hadn’t seen this young man since that passionate night, however.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“So you didn’t exchange phone numbers?” I said.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“He didn’t seem interested in that,” she said. She blushed.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“And you want me to track him down?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“Yes.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“Why?” It was a question I always asked.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“I think he should contribute to the upbringing of my child.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“Financially, you mean?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“At least, yes.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“You're a big girl. You knew the risks."<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“That bastard told me he'd had a vasectomy and we didn’t have to worry about me getting pregnant.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“I hope you at least got away from this without contracting any diseases.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">She scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean? Are you passing judgment on me?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">I held up my hands. “No, no. I’m in no position to do that, believe me.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“All right. Listen, I know what I did was really stupid. I was horny and drunk. That’s a lousy combination.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“Amen,” I said.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“I just feel this bastard should pay for his lies.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">I nodded. “I guess I can sympathize with that. You’re keeping the baby?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“Of course I am. That guy might have turned out to be a bastard, but this is my child<span style="color: red;">,</span> and I’ve been in love with him since I felt his first kick.” She rubbed her belly.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“Good to hear. It’s a boy?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“Yes,” she said.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“Are you married? Living with someone?” I said.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“No, I didn’t cheat on anyone when I had sex with that bastard. I know it'll be tough raising this kid on my own. The least he can do is give me some monetary support.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">Life was expensive. I knew all about that since I’d severed all ties to my rich, mobster dad. I could barely pay my own bills, and I didn’t have a kid to provide for. “Seems logical.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“About that... What's your fee? I’m afraid I won’t be able to pay very much right now. I’ve got a lot of stuff to buy for my baby.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“Did you already name the kid?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“Huh? No... I haven’t decided on a name yet.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“Any ideas yet?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“Not really, no.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“I’ll make you a deal, then. If I manage to track down the father you name the kid after me. If I don’t track him down, it’s on the house.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">She seemed to be unsure whether I was kidding her. “Really?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“Dead serious.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">She thought about that for a while, biting her lip as she did so. “Noah Fawkes. Sounds pretty good, I guess.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“Nice to hear,” I said. “Would you like something to drink?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“Water would be nice,” she said.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">I got a bottle of Evian out of the fridge and handed it to her. I filled up my Kermit mug with coffee and sat down behind my desk again.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“So, we’ve got a deal. Now, tell me more about this bastard. Do you know his name?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">She took a sip of water. “He told me his name was Reynard Roberts. I didn’t find him on Facebook or Myspace, though. In fact, googling him turned up nothing.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“These search engines might cost me my job someday,” I said. “Luckily, there still are two or three people in the world without an internet ID. And of course there are people who don’t give out their real name. Can you describe what he looks like?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“He’s about thirty I guess. <st1:place w:st="on">Sandy</st1:place>hair, shaggy cut. Muscled. About five-ten. Green eyes. He’s got a tattoo of a spider on his left forearm.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“Any scars?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“In fact, he has a little scar next to his left eye.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“Okay, that’s something to work with, I guess. Did he tell you what he does for a living?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“Not exactly. Just that he was involved with the entertainment industry.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">Just like about eighty percent of all the people in LA.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“He came on to you in the club?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“Yeah, quite aggressively really. He offered me a drink and got to the point pretty quickly.” Tears started to well up in her eyes. “How could I fall for a sleazebag like that? I feel like a whore when I think about what I did. I really don’t usually do stuff like that, you know. It’s just... That morning I’d gotten fired from my job, I used to be a secretary at an accounting firm, and I just wanted to let off some steam. He offered me that opportunity and some comfort. He just knew what to say, how to act...”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“A professional ladies man,” I said.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“Yeah, I guess you could call him that.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">I offered her a tissue. She dried her eyes and took a drink of water. I patted her hand.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“Don’t feel bad about what happened. Sounds like you didn’t stand a chance,” I said. “I’ll track this guy down, don’t worry.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">If you want to read more, you can order it on Amazon and here's the link:&nbsp;<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;">&nbsp;</span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Scoundrel-Noah-Milano-Novelette-ebook/dp/B009L5Q8Q0/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&amp;qid=1349345972&amp;sr=8-1&amp;keywords=Scoundrel+%28A+Noah+Milano+Novelette%29" rel="nofollow" style="background-color: white; font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;" target="_blank"><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1349538217_0">http://www.amazon.com/Scoundrel-Noah-Milano-Novelette-ebook/dp/B009L5Q8Q0/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&amp;qid=1349345972&amp;sr=8-1&amp;keywords=Scoundrel+%28A+Noah+Milano+Novelette%29</span></a></div><span style="font-family: &quot;Dark Courier&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Courier New&quot;; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" /></span>Michael Haskinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01542564372760690584noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7606145013695548285.post-47246869760024848292012-09-18T09:07:00.002-04:002012-09-18T09:07:57.677-04:00Chris Knopf's "Dead Anyway"My friend and fellow writer Chris Knopf has just published his new book, "Dead Anyway," and been receiving great reviews. You might remember I wrote about his last book, "Ice Cap" earlier. Both are worth reading. Here is some copy from the book jacket's flap:<br /><br /><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Imagine this: &nbsp;&nbsp;You have a nice life.&nbsp; You love your beautiful, successful wife.&nbsp; You’re an easy going guy working out of your comfortable Connecticut home.&nbsp; The world is an interesting, pleasant place. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Then in seconds, it’s all gone.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">You’re still alive, but the world thinks you’re dead.&nbsp; And now you have to decide.&nbsp; Make it official, or go after the evil that took it all away from you.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Arthur Cathcart, market researcher and occasional finder of missing persons, decides to live on and fight, by doing what he knows best – figuring things out, without revealing his status as a living, breathing human being.&nbsp; Much easier said than done in the post-9/11 world, where everything about yourself and all the tools you need to live a modern life are an open book.&nbsp; How do you become a different person, how do you finance an elaborate scheme without revealing yourself?&nbsp; How do you force a reckoning with the worst people on earth, <i>as a dead man</i>? <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Mystery writer Chris Knopf, who has examined complex what-if’s through five Sam Acquillo and three Jackie Swaitkowski Hamptons Mysteries, tackles these intriguing questions in a tale of mindless venality, phantom identity, impossible obstacles and the triumph of intellect and imagination over brute force.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Here are some reviews. After reading 'em you'll want your copy!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><u><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">Booklist </span><i>Advanced Review – Uncorrected Proof </i></u></b><u>Issue: September 15, 2012<o:p></o:p></u></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shapetype id="_x0000_t75" coordsize="21600,21600" o:spt="75" o:preferrelative="t" path="m@4@5l@4@11@9@11@9@5xe" filled="f" stroked="f"> <v:stroke joinstyle="miter"/> <v:formulas> <v:f eqn="if lineDrawn pixelLineWidth 0"/> <v:f eqn="sum @0 1 0"/> <v:f eqn="sum 0 0 @1"/> <v:f eqn="prod @2 1 2"/> <v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelWidth"/> <v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelHeight"/> <v:f eqn="sum @0 0 1"/> <v:f eqn="prod @6 1 2"/> <v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelWidth"/> <v:f eqn="sum @8 21600 0"/> <v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelHeight"/> <v:f eqn="sum @10 21600 0"/> </v:formulas> <v:path o:extrusionok="f" gradientshapeok="t" o:connecttype="rect"/> <o:lock v:ext="edit" aspectratio="t"/></v:shapetype><v:shape id="_x0000_i1025" type="#_x0000_t75" alt="" style='width:12pt; height:12pt'> <v:imagedata src="file:///C:\Users\Michael\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image001.gif" o:href="http://www.publishersweekly.com/images/star.gif"/></v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><img height="16" src="file:///C:/Users/Michael/AppData/Local/Temp/msohtmlclip1/01/clip_image001.gif" v:shapes="_x0000_i1025" width="16" /><!--[endif]--><b>Dead Anyway </b>Knopf, Chris (Author),Sep 2012. 288 p. Permanent Press, hardcover, $28.00. (9781579622831).<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Arthur Cathcart considered himself a lucky man. A self-proclaimed nerd and a meticulous market researcher, he somehow won the affections of the lovely Florencia, owner of an insurance brokerage firm, and their marriage was solid and happy, built on mutual respect, admiration, and love. Then his world implodes. He survives the carnage but decides to let the world assume he’s dead, the better to stay safe while tries to discover what happened and who’s responsible. Knopf, whose Hamptons-based series<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">featuring Sam Aquillo and Jackie Swaitkowski effectively mixes comedy and mystery, goes a different way here, with a high-energy, very savvy thriller. Connecticut-based Cathcart has no time for police procedure and instead acts on his instincts, using his research skills to help him find the way and even becoming a bad-ass when necessary. While some of Cathcart’s self-assuredness as an action hero seems a bit of a stretch, the novel generates enormous tension, and the mild-mannered number-cruncher is definitely an appealing hero. It's unclear if the novel is intended to be a stand-alone, or if it will launch a new series, but we'd very much like to see more of the engaging Catchart.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>— Leon Wagner</i><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><u>Publishers Weekly&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; June 25, 2012<o:p></o:p></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shape id="_x0000_i1026" type="#_x0000_t75" alt="" style='width:12pt;height:12pt'> <v:imagedata src="file:///C:\Users\Michael\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image001.gif" o:href="http://www.publishersweekly.com/images/star.gif"/></v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><img height="16" src="file:///C:/Users/Michael/AppData/Local/Temp/msohtmlclip1/01/clip_image001.gif" v:shapes="_x0000_i1026" width="16" /><!--[endif]--><strong>Dead Anyway</strong><br /><em>Chris Knopf. Permanent, $28 (288p) ISBN 978-1-57962-283-1</em> <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Knopf reaches a new imaginative peak with market researcher Arthur Cathcart in this outstanding revenge novel. One afternoon, Cathcart returns to his <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Stamford</st1:city>, <st1:state w:st="on">Conn.</st1:state></st1:place>, home to find his wife, Florencia, sitting in the living room with a man holding a gun. After forcing Florencia to sign a document, the man shoots each of them in the head. Cathcart survives, but is in a coma for months. When he awakes, Cathcart succeeds, with the connivance of his physician sister, in having himself declared dead. As he begins the tortuous rehabilitation process and looks into establishing new identities, Cathcart realizes that it’s almost impossible to go off the grid totally and still be able to function effectively, so he has to compromise in inventive ways. Cathcart ingeniously manages to penetrate the world of hired killers and major crime figures in his quest to discover both the who and the why behind the original hit. (Sept.)<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><u>Kirkus Review&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Online Publish Date: July 31, 2012<o:p></o:p></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shape id="_x0000_i1027" type="#_x0000_t75" alt="" style='width:12pt;height:12pt'> <v:imagedata src="file:///C:\Users\Michael\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image001.gif" o:href="http://www.publishersweekly.com/images/star.gif"/></v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><img height="16" src="file:///C:/Users/Michael/AppData/Local/Temp/msohtmlclip1/01/clip_image001.gif" v:shapes="_x0000_i1027" width="16" /><!--[endif]-->DEAD ANYWAY <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Author: Knopf, Chris<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Publisher: Permanent Press, Pages 248, $28.00 Hardcover, Pub Date September 15, 2012<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">ISBN: 978-1-57962-283-1; Category: Fiction, Classification: Mystery<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Nothing in Knopf’s reflective, quietly loopy <st1:place w:st="on">Hamptons</st1:place> mysteries starring Sam Acquillo and Jackie Swaitkowski (Ice Cap, 2012, etc.) will have prepared his fans for this taut, streamlined tale of a man investigating his own murder.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The hit man who invades the Cathcarts’ upscale home in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Stamford</st1:city>, <st1:state w:st="on">Conn.</st1:state></st1:place>, tells Florencia Cathcart that if she doesn’t write down the answers to five questions, he’ll kill her husband. When she complies, he shoots them both anyway. Florencia dies, but Arthur merely hovers in a coma for months. Convinced upon his return to life that his killer’s been monitoring his progress with a view to finishing him off, he persuades his neurologist sister, Evelyn, to have him declared dead. She agrees, although she’s signing on to a long list of potential charges for conspiracy and insurance fraud, and Arthur, once he’s erased from the grid, is free to assume the identity of one Alex Rimes and go after the hit man and his employer. He tires easily, he limps badly, and his vision is poor, but his skills as a freelance researcher turn out to be surprisingly useful, though he can’t imagine why anyone would order the execution of either himself or Florencia, who owned a successful insurance agency. The trail to the killers leads through a wary arrangement with a retired FBI agent, an elaborate precious-metals scam and a society party to die for before Arthur finally confronts his quarry in a sequence that manages both to satisfy readers’ bloodlust and to point toward a sequel.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">An absorbing update of the classic film, D.O.A., that finds its author so completely in the zone that not a word is wasted, and the story seems to unfold itself without human assistance.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><u>Library Journal,&nbsp; August 2012<o:p></o:p></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shape id="_x0000_i1028" type="#_x0000_t75" alt="" style='width:12pt;height:12pt'> <v:imagedata src="file:///C:\Users\Michael\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image001.gif" o:href="http://www.publishersweekly.com/images/star.gif"/></v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><img height="16" src="file:///C:/Users/Michael/AppData/Local/Temp/msohtmlclip1/01/clip_image001.gif" v:shapes="_x0000_i1028" width="16" /><!--[endif]-->Knopf, Chris. Dead Anyway. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Permanent. Sept. 2012. c.288p. ISBN 9781579622831. $28. M<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">When a hit man shows up at Arthur Cathcart's home and assassinates his wife, Arthur is badly wounded, but not quite dead, and his physician sister is able to get him back on his feet. Angry Arthur has mapped out a strategy to make everyone to think he's dead, and he's concocted an elaborate alternative identity plan so he can track down the hit man himself. Since Arthur was a professional researcher, his prowess with online detecting is quite remarkable. His audacious plan is both psychologically chilling and exciting as the plot burrows through the bowels of underworld <st1:place w:st="on">Connecticut</st1:place>. Running the supreme con, Arthur pulls in his prey. VERDICT Knopf's tale is suspenseful from the get-go, with an intellectual, yet visceral, vigilantism coursing through the pages. In a major change in direction, the author of the "Sam Acquillo Hamptons Mysteries" (<i>Black Swan</i>; <i>Hard Stop</i>) never misses an angle and manages to weave a bit of humor into a storyline that could have been purely dark. This bodes well for a really good series and is reminiscent of Richard Stark's (aka Donald Westlake) Parker novels with a dose of <i>Grosse Pointe Blank</i>.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><u><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">Booklist </span><i>Advanced Review – Uncorrected Proof </i></u></b><u>Issue: September 15, 2012<o:p></o:p></u></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shape id="_x0000_i1029" type="#_x0000_t75" alt="" style='width:12pt;height:12pt'> <v:imagedata src="file:///C:\Users\Michael\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image001.gif" o:href="http://www.publishersweekly.com/images/star.gif"/></v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><img height="16" src="file:///C:/Users/Michael/AppData/Local/Temp/msohtmlclip1/01/clip_image001.gif" v:shapes="_x0000_i1029" width="16" /><!--[endif]--><b>Dead Anyway </b>Knopf, Chris (Author),Sep 2012. 288 p. Permanent Press, hardcover, $28.00. (9781579622831).<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Arthur Cathcart considered himself a lucky man. A self-proclaimed nerd and a meticulous market researcher, he somehow won the affections of the lovely Florencia, owner of an insurance brokerage firm, and their marriage was solid and happy, built on mutual respect, admiration, and love. Then his world implodes. He survives the carnage but decides to let the world assume he’s dead, the better to stay safe while tries to discover what happened and who’s responsible. Knopf, whose Hamptons-based series<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">featuring Sam Aquillo and Jackie Swaitkowski effectively mixes comedy and mystery, goes a different way here, with a high-energy, very savvy thriller. Connecticut-based Cathcart has no time for police procedure and instead acts on his instincts, using his research skills to help him find the way and even becoming a bad-ass when necessary. While some of Cathcart’s self-assuredness as an action hero seems a bit of a stretch, the novel generates enormous tension, and the mild-mannered number-cruncher is definitely an appealing hero. It's unclear if the novel is intended to be a stand-alone, or if it will launch a new series, but we'd very much like to see more of the engaging Catchart.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>— Leon Wagner</i><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br /></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Good, yes? Okay, so you want to see the cover before you head to the bookstore and order your copy. Have I ever denied you anything?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-c8pyH9bXLVg/UFhxymBGKeI/AAAAAAAAAWw/jua4HHvf0Aw/s1600/dead-anyway.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-c8pyH9bXLVg/UFhxymBGKeI/AAAAAAAAAWw/jua4HHvf0Aw/s320/dead-anyway.jpg" width="208" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Yeah, keep the room well lit while you read and maybe a nightlight in the bedroom too, just in case!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><br /> <div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>Michael Haskinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01542564372760690584noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7606145013695548285.post-61528574237477112072012-09-01T10:15:00.000-04:002012-09-01T20:01:16.390-04:00DEATH BY DEADLINEMy friend, and fellow newsman, Mel Taylor (ABC Miami) has released his new mystery, Death by Deadline, on Kindle. It continues were his other books left off. Here is a brief synopsis:<br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="background-color: white; font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Each step closer to his prize of a photograph of the sunset in the exotic<span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1346507083_0">Florida Everglades</span>,&nbsp;</span><span style="font-size: large;">also brought him closer to his attacker. When a hiker finds him the next day, the question looming</span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">for anxious detectives is whether he was killed by an animal of the glades, or is it murder.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">TV reporter Matt Bowens is on the trail of a killer, all the time trying to quell a scared public&nbsp;</span><span style="font-size: large;">and find out the truth before there is another Death by Dead</span><span style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">h</span><span style="font-size: large;">line.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-size: large;">This is what Amazon synopsis says:</span></div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">The lure and wild beauty of the Florida Everglades attracts many people. On this night, Brock Molgan set out to take a picture of the sun setting over the glades. He did not hear the attacker approaching. When a tourist found his body the next morning, the first question for them remained: Was the assailant human or animal.&nbsp;</span><br /><div style="background-color: white; font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">South Florida TV reporter Matt Bowens arrives at the scene and learns from detectives, the victim suffered bite marks. A nervous public waits for answers and Bowens mounts a reporter's investigation into what happened. And why would Molgan approach his girlfriend before his death about buying her property, which rests next to the Everglades. This is the third in the series of the Deadline books. Bowens sets out to find the killer before there is another Death by Deadline.</span><span style="font-size: large;">&nbsp;</span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">If I could write a synopsis that brief and that good . . . why ponder what I can not do?&nbsp;</span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">Check the book out, you won't be disappointed and if Mel's that good at synopsis writing, image how good he is at putting the whole story out there.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DttR_99N5dI/UEIXE2l4uJI/AAAAAAAAAWI/5Q4ecJ8l_nc/s1600/Mel+Taylor+bookcover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DttR_99N5dI/UEIXE2l4uJI/AAAAAAAAAWI/5Q4ecJ8l_nc/s320/Mel+Taylor+bookcover.jpg" width="208" /></a></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></div>Michael Haskinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01542564372760690584noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7606145013695548285.post-25322590402956186702012-08-14T21:05:00.002-04:002012-08-18T10:13:10.665-04:00Learning to write . . .<br /><div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .25in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;Georgia&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">I’m 100+ pages into my next Mick Murphy Key West Mystery and, because I’m writing it darker and differently than the other book in the series, it has been a lot of fun having past incidents threaten to change characters’ character.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.25in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;Georgia&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">I’ll be at a signing this <u><b>Sunday</b></u>, at Fast Buck Freddie’s Pop-Up Writers event on Duval and Fleming streets, in Key West, 6 – 8 pm, so if you’re on island for any reason, stop in and say hi. The event includes other Key West writers and the once popular store is being used as a Pop-Up art gallery, so there’s a lot to see besides writers.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.25in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;Georgia&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">Often, at signings or casual meetings with fans, writers are asked a few stock questions. How do you come up with ideas? When did you decided to be a writer? (By the way, btw for you tablet freaks, writing chooses you, you don’t choose writing). How did you learn to write? So, speaking for one, we have come up with stock answers.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;Georgia&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">Since I’m writing a sequel, I’d like to dwell on the last questions. How did I learn to write? It’s a many-sided question. I know there are great writers out there that went to Harvard and other<span class="apple-converted-space">&nbsp;</span><a href="http://writeonthewater.com/" id="_GPLITA_1" in_rurl="http://trkjmp.com/click?v=VVM6MjExNzg6MTEyNTpjb2xsZWdlczo0MDUxOTczYTVlNWRiNGNkZjdlMmU2M2E4YTM4OWEzMjp6LTEwMzItNjI4NjI6d3JpdGVvbnRoZXdhdGVyLmNvbToxMzAxNzppbWFnZV9vbmx5" title="Powered by Text-Enhance"><span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; color: #743399; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;">colleges</span></a><span class="apple-converted-space">&nbsp;</span>and learned to write there. Then there is a dwindling of old school writers that learned to write by being journalists, think Ernest Hemingway.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;Georgia&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="color: #333333;">I had my feet in both ponds and I’ve often said I learned more from seasoned journalists while an office boy (not PC, but that’s what I was back then) at the Boston Record-American/Sunday Advertiser. Warren Walworth and the Gilhooley brothers taught me more about putting sentences together that would keep a reader reading than</span><span class="apple-converted-space" style="color: #333333;">&nbsp;</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; padding: 0in;"><a href="http://writeonthewater.com/" id="_GPLITA_2" in_rurl="http://trkjmp.com/click?v=VVM6MjI0MjA6MTEyNTphbnkgY29sbGVnZTo4N2NhZTY3NDBmNzAzODgxN2ZjOTUzOTZkOGM3NWVhMzp6LTEwMzItNjI4NjI6d3JpdGVvbnRoZXdhdGVyLmNvbTowOg" title="Powered by Text-Enhance">any college</a>&nbsp;</span><span style="color: #333333;">class ever came close to.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;Georgia&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;Georgia&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">I should point out that I’m not talking about journalism today. Sadly, what existed in the ‘50s &amp; ‘60s has all but died and it was the greatest<span class="apple-converted-space">&nbsp;</span><a href="http://writeonthewater.com/" id="_GPLITA_3" in_rurl="http://trkjmp.com/click?v=VVM6MjMyOTA6MTI5NTpzY2hvb2w6YTY5NGNiYTZiYjhlZjIyNTUwMzJiYzlmNWU3ZWI1MmY6ei0xMDMyLTYyODYyOndyaXRlb250aGV3YXRlci5jb206MDo" title="Powered by Text-Enhance"><span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; color: #743399; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;">school</span></a><span class="apple-converted-space">&nbsp;</span>available to a kid who flunked high school English but loved books and writing.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.25in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;Georgia&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">So, you could say, my learning to write began back at the old newspaper with guys who drank too much, smoked too much and loved their work too much.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;Georgia&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">When I left Boston, I still loved to read. Reading is the<span class="apple-converted-space">&nbsp;</span><a href="http://writeonthewater.com/" id="_GPLITA_0" in_rurl="http://trkjmp.com/click?v=VVM6MjI0MjA6MTEyNTpiZXN0IHNjaG9vbDpkOGQ5Njg0MzI2MmVkMWQxNjZhNzgzMmY4YmViYjU0Yzp6LTEwMzItNjI4NjI6d3JpdGVvbnRoZXdhdGVyLmNvbTowOg" title="Powered by Text-Enhance"><span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; color: #743399; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;">best school</span></a><span class="apple-converted-space">&nbsp;</span>for writers, since journalism is dying. What got me to thinking about this has a lot to do with what I’m writing now, tentatively titled “Key West Latitude.” My critique group of writers doesn’t like it, but it’s a working title and I can worry about a new title when the book is finished.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.25in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;Georgia&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">When I’m writing, or well into a book, I like to read other writers that I respect for their story-telling habits. I’ll read Robert Crais, Tom Corcoran, Don Bruns, James Hall, Bob Morris, Dennis Lehane or James Lee Burke. Well, as luck would have it, Burke has a new book out, “Creole Belle.” I began it and read it carefully, enjoying his prose and dialogue, as well as his plot.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.25in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;Georgia&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">Of course, I read many other writers but don’t waste my times on writers I don’t enjoy and there are a few of them out there too. I write mysteries, as we all know, so I read in the mystery-thriller genre. I read for enjoyment but also to learn and I learn a lot from Burke and the others. I learn what works and sometimes what doesn’t work. You read Burke’s Dave Robicheaux series and even if you’re stuck in a Montana snowstorm, you find yourself swatting at imaginary mosquitoes attacking your neck! He’s that good.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.25in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;Georgia&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">How do these writers do what impresses me? That’s what I try to figure out while wondering if whatever that is will work in my writing. Sometimes yes and sometimes no. But reading has taught me to try various things that impressed me.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.25in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;Georgia&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">Crais turning his Elvis Cole books into Joe Pike books gave me the idea of opening my book in progress from Norm’s voice. The book is darker and a sequel to “Stairway to the Bottom” and, if you’ve read it, the ending leaves Mick Murphy’s changed forever. I knew how I wanted to the new book to open but couldn’t see Murphy telling the story. Because I am a fan of Crais, I’ve read all his books and thought about changing POV. It took me a while to get it straight, believable, but once I did, I was off to the races.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.25in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;Georgia&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">If you want to write, you have to read and know why you like what it is you’re reading or what makes you dislike it. The good stuff you make work in your style, the bad stuff you try to remember not to use.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.25in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif;">"Car Wash Blues" can be pre-ordered on Amazon and will be released the end of his month.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bjtn8y4paYI/UCr1ZlA-WLI/AAAAAAAAAV0/ZeQB5rIo-Tk/s1600/Car+Wash+Blues+cover.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bjtn8y4paYI/UCr1ZlA-WLI/AAAAAAAAAV0/ZeQB5rIo-Tk/s320/Car+Wash+Blues+cover.jpeg" width="215" /></a></div><div style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.25in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;Georgia&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.25in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;Georgia&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">w</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: 18pt;">ww.michaelhaskins.net</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div>Michael Haskinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01542564372760690584noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7606145013695548285.post-19761575735275292312012-06-07T20:28:00.000-04:002012-06-09T10:28:08.288-04:00Private Eye Writers of America's Shamus Award<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9KwoJwGt_u0/T9NcgwYNKwI/AAAAAAAAAVg/lpktOJ1ghXc/s1600/PWA+logo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="166" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9KwoJwGt_u0/T9NcgwYNKwI/AAAAAAAAAVg/lpktOJ1ghXc/s200/PWA+logo.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />I received an email from the editor of Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine to let me know that my short story, <i><b>Vampire Slayer Murdered in Key West</b></i>, is one of 5 stories up for the Shamus Award this October. Was I surprised!<br /><br />The nice thing, &nbsp;other than being nominated, is that the committee that chose my story is made up of fellow writers. The story appeared in the double Sept/Oct. 2011 issue of EQMM. If you have a copy hanging around, read the story.<br /><br />It is an honor to be nominated and I am humbled.<br /><br />Lee Goldberg's Mr Monk story is also on the list and Lee and I were friends back in LA before my move to Key West. I've sent Lee my best wishes.<br /><br />Don't know what my chances are, but will be biting my finger nails until than.<br /><br />Oh yeah, on the official website and other notices, my name is listed as Michael West, but I'm told the correction will be made. If I win, I hope they get the name on the award!<br /><br />Just wanted to share the news. Now I can put "Shamus Award&nbsp;nominee" on my jacket cover and in PR releases. Hope it helps sales!Michael Haskinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01542564372760690584noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7606145013695548285.post-25224819183874872352012-06-03T12:27:00.004-04:002012-06-03T12:27:57.982-04:00Chris Knopf's ICE CAPMy friend and fellow writer Chris Knopf will release his new book, <i><b>Ice Cap</b></i>, in a few days and I thought I'd share chapter one and a review of two. I am sure you'll find them interesting.<br /><div style="text-align: center;">&nbsp;* * *</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><b><span style="color: #354d66; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">Publishers Weekly,</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><b><span style="color: #354d66; font-family: &quot;Verdana&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">Ice Cap</span></b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">Chris Knopf. Minotaur, $24.99 (304p) ISBN 978-1-250-00517-5<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">At the start of Knopf’s breezy third Southampton mystery featuring defense attorney Jackie Swaitkowski (after 2011’s Bad Bird), client Franco Raffini summons Jackie during a winter storm to the house of Tad Buczek, a relative of hers by marriage, who’s lying dead under a pergola. That Franco, previously convicted of manslaughter, admits he messed up the crime scene by moving the body only adds to Jackie’s doubts about his innocence. When Franco is arrested and charged with second-degree murder, Jackie is determined to win the case against her client, despite threats from a couple of toughs for her to lose it. A familiar cast aids her, including boyfriend Harry Goodlander, Sam Acquillo (the star of Black Swan and four other mysteries), and computer geek Randall Dodge. A host of Polish relatives (by marriage) and Tad’s imported wife, Katarzina, provide comedy and tragedy. Atrocious winter weather, Franco’s aversion to telling all, and Tad’s deep secrets keep the outcome in doubt. Whether Jackie or Sam takes the lead, Knopf’s ensemble mysteries are good entertainment. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-size: 24.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;; mso-font-kerning: 18.0pt;">Book Review: ICE CAP by Chris Knopf<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">By <a href="http://lindafaulkner.com/author/lindafaulkner/" title="Posts by Linda Faulkner"><span style="color: blue;">Linda Faulkner</span></a>· <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://us.macmillan.com/series/JackieSwaitkowskiMysteries" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">Jackie Swaitkowski</span></a> is an attorney practicing law in the Hamptons of Long Island.&nbsp; Her client is accused of murdering her late husband’s uncle&nbsp;… and nobody wants to believe her client’s innocent.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The worst winter on record dumps endless snow on the Hamptons, which hampers our heroine’s attempts to discover who really committed the murder.&nbsp; Of course, Jackie’s the only person who believes Franco Raffinni is innocent and&nbsp;she really has to work at it.&nbsp; Also hampering&nbsp;her efforts to solve the mystery are members of her husband’s family and the Polish-American community in which they live, the victim’s widow, and emissaries of a local mob boss whose visits become increasingly more threatening and violent.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">As a former resident of Long Island, I&nbsp;found myself skimming over the numerous references to the Hamptons; however, Jackie’s clever, witty, and entertaining personality MORE than made up for that minor flaw and I certainly didn’t skim anywhere else!&nbsp; I laughed out loud numerous times as I read this book in one sitting.&nbsp; Knopf does an excellent job writing from the perspective of his female character and I’ll be checking out more of Jackie’s adventures.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">You shouldn’t miss this one.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kCq-KeEjALg/T8uP0JgbPgI/AAAAAAAAAVI/oNHaDEA7DXc/s1600/ice+cap.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kCq-KeEjALg/T8uP0JgbPgI/AAAAAAAAAVI/oNHaDEA7DXc/s320/ice+cap.jpg" width="211" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Okay, now for chapter one!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">Chapter 1<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; It would have been the blizzard of the century if a bigger one hadn’t hit a few weeks later.&nbsp; But for the people of the Hamptons marooned in the off-off season of mid-January, it was like we’d been plucked from the end of Long Island and dropped into the arctic circle.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; For me, it was another opportunity to praise my Volvo station wagon, both steadfast and true, no matter how little maintenance or care I remembered to bestow upon it.&nbsp; That evening the biggest challenge was identifying the car among the other giant heaps of rapidly building snow in the parking lot behind my apartment.&nbsp; I was only out there&nbsp; because I got a call from one of my clients, Franklin Delano Raffinni – an ex-investment banker who’d served time for killing his girlfriend’s husband with a rotisserie skewer before the husband could kill him with a steak knife.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “You gotta get over here, Jackie,” he said via cell phone, the words barely audible over the wind noise.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “Not the best time,” I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “Don’t tell anybody anything till you get here.&nbsp; I’m serious.&nbsp; You’ll see why.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Another complicating factor was my complete lack of personal preparedness.&nbsp; Snow was hardly unheard of in the Hamptons, but nothing like this.&nbsp; The best I could do was cowboy boots, black leather gloves that went nearly to the elbow (bought for more heated circumstances), leotards, jeans, and lots of layers under my orange barn jacket.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I thought I’d overdone it until I hit the outside air and felt like the skin on my face was being cryogenically removed.&nbsp; I found the car and dug my way to the driver’s side door with an old aluminum fry pan.&nbsp; Inside the car somewhere was an ice scraper.&nbsp; From the driver’s seat, I climbed into the back and dug the scraper out from under a stack of file folders, a pair of jumper cables, a box of Kleenex, a bird cage, a beach umbrella last used five months before, golf clubs never used and other unrelated items whose origins had been lost in the mists of time.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; When I finally&nbsp; finished clearing about two feet of snow off the car with the fry pan and scraper, another inch or two had already started to form.&nbsp; The engine had been running, however, so the defrosters and wipers kept the glass clear.&nbsp; The greater issue was the most fundamental – could I really drive in this stuff?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Even if snow plows had been as prevalent in Long Island as they were in Buffalo, there was no way to keep up with the snowfall.&nbsp; So the only choice wasn’t driving over, it was driving through.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; At least&nbsp; I’d been taught by my father how to handle a car in the snow.&nbsp; He had his faults, but denying his daughter instruction in the many things he thought her too stupid to master on her own was not one of them.&nbsp; So whenever a snow storm hit the area, however meager the accumulation, we’d venture forth in one of his ungainly American land yachts for a lesson, usually delivered in harsh and condescending tones, just to assure that even an effort to preserve my safety could be remembered with a tinge of hollow disappointment.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The first trick was to go easy on the gas pedal, refraining at all times from spinning the wheels, a circumstance from which my father impressed upon me was virtually impossible to recover.&nbsp; That day, I thought the whole thing was impossible, so I was more surprised than triumphant when I felt the car move forward out of the parking spot, across the lot and out into the street.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; From there it was a short hop to Montauk Highway, the main east-west thoroughfare that connected a string of villages that comprised the Hamptons, and thus the only road the authorities were committed to keeping as clear as possible.&nbsp; This meant that successive plow passes during the day had formed a small mountain ridge at the end of my side street.&nbsp; As my father had taught me, this circumstance called for an opposing strategy: drop to a lower gear and hit the gas.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I felt it was every bit as unlikely that I’d be able to smash my way through a wall of snow as it was getting underway in the first place, which is probably why I didn’t consider the consequences of success until I found myself in the middle of Montauk Highway, perpendicular to the flow of traffic and directly in the path of a very large pickup.&nbsp; I cranked the wheel hard to the right and kept power to the wheels, allowing me to spin the rear of the car into the opposite snow bank, just barely avoiding an ugly collision.&nbsp; For its part, the truck swerved a few times, the edge of the yellow plow whispering past the side of the Volvo, and then swinging back into the mass of snow that entombed a row of cars along the curbside.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “Idiot,” I said to myself, for a variety of reasons, including the fact that I was now irrevocably lodged inside the packed snow.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I looked in my mirror and saw a woman in heavy coveralls, about the color of my barn jacket, jump out of the truck and slip-slide toward me through the swirling haze.&nbsp; I rolled down the passenger side mirror and prepared myself for a well-deserved rebuke.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “Are you alright?” she asked, looking anxiously through the open window.&nbsp; Her long brown hair, streaked with grey, was salted with snowflakes, and her angular, dark face was lit up with concern.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “I should be asking you,” I said.&nbsp; “I did a really dumb thing.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “Everybody’s dumb in a snowstorm.&nbsp; You stuck?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “Oh, yeah.&nbsp; How would you feel about pulling me out?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “I’d feel fine about it,” she said.&nbsp; “Don’t go anywhere till I get back.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; She jogged back to her truck, jumped in, did a three-point turn and drove a short way past me.&nbsp; Then she got a chain out of the truck bed and hooked us up.&nbsp; She gestured for me to roll down my window again.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “Just help me along with some gentle acceleration.&nbsp; No stunt driving necessary.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “What’s your name?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “Dayna Red.&nbsp; I tell people it’s a house paint.&nbsp; Nobody believes me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I told her my name and profession – counsel to the region’s impoverished miscreants, or merely misled, one of whom had sent me an urgent call, which I felt irresistibly compelled to answer.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “Not in this weather you aren’t,” she said.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “What if I hired you?” I asked her.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “Plow job?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “Escort.&nbsp; I need to get over to Seven Ponds in Southampton.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; She leaned into the car, bringing some more of the storm with her.&nbsp; A white dust started to form on the accretion of papers, soda cans and empty cigarette packs that filled the passenger seat. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “I just came from over there.&nbsp; They haven’t plowed yet.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I wrote the address on a handy piece of paper.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “You know where that is?” I asked her.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; She studied the paper.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “Sure.&nbsp; Tad Buczek’s place.&nbsp; Metal Madness.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Metal wasn’t the only thing mad about Tad, but it figured largely.&nbsp; Like my late husband’s family, the honorable Swaitkowskis, Tad’s family had made the calculation that tens of millions of dollars in hand from real estate developers was better than bushels of potatoes you had to go to the trouble of growing, harvesting and selling into a saturated market.&nbsp; Tad’s share of the bounty was substantial, enough for him to retain fifteen acres of mixed fields and woodlands for himself, on which he established one of the more irregular local homesteads, even by the rigorous standards of the Hamptons.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Always a connoisseur of large agricultural&nbsp; machinery, Tad harnessed&nbsp; his new wealth to embark on a major acquisition program, focusing on earth moving equipment, until his property was littered with backhoes and bulldozers, excavators, dump trucks and articulated haulers.&nbsp; Zoning disputes quickly erupted, led by some of Tad’s new neighbors, the wealthy owners of colonial-style and post modern mini-mansions that rose up out his family’s former potato farm.&nbsp;&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Tad eventually reached a settlement, that in my former life as a real estate lawyer I helped draft, which required him to store his earthmover collection within a pair of huge pre-fabbed steel buildings, designed to enclose things like assembly lines and commercial aircraft.&nbsp; The deal was sealed when he sited the buildings within a grove of pine trees deep inside the property, thus rendering the entire operation essentially invisible.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; What his opponents hadn’t figured on was Tad’s purpose in acquiring the earth moving equipment in the first place, which wasn’t to simply warehouse a fleet of lumbering machines, but rather to apply them to the purpose for which they’d been originally engineered.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Moving earth. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The land cleared of the offending eyesores was soon in the midst of a massive transformation.&nbsp; Out of acres of flat, unobstructed potato fields grew huge hills, plateaus, pyramids and berms that circled into themselves like ancient fortifications.&nbsp; Much of this required massive infusions of fill, which meant a steady procession of dump trucks importing sand, gravel and rough soil from as far away as North Jersey.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Another flood of lawsuits resulted, but there was little the neighbors could do about this one.&nbsp;&nbsp; There was no law or statute prohibiting the physical alteration of a person’s private land, provided it had no negative impact on the adjacent environment, water supply or septic systems.&nbsp; Offenses Tad studiously avoided.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Better yet, the work was done in fairly short order, barely six months, after which Tad set to growing grass and planting trees and bushes on his freshly terra-formed estate, softening the edges of the artificial earthen shapes until they took on the character of a naturally molded landscape, one of such verdant beauty that any complaint seemed fatuous at best.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The subsequent good will helped Tad weather the next explosion of outrage.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><br /></div><div align="center" class="MsoListParagraph" style="line-height: 23.0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">#&nbsp;&nbsp; #&nbsp;&nbsp; #&nbsp;&nbsp; #&nbsp; #&nbsp;&nbsp; #&nbsp; #&nbsp;&nbsp; #&nbsp; #&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; #<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “I’ll&nbsp; have to put the plow down when we turn on David White’s Lane,” said Dayna, after pulling me out of the snow bank and walking back to my car.&nbsp; She asked for my cell phone number.&nbsp; “I’ll call you and we’ll keep the connection open.&nbsp; Keep it on speaker.&nbsp; Better than a walkie-talkie.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The snowfall might have abated some as the sky above darkened to a deep, sooty grey.&nbsp; But snow still filled the air, blown into a chaotic frenzy by the increasing wind.&nbsp; That was one of the costs of living close to the ocean.&nbsp; Whatever lousy weather you could have out here, the wind always made it that much lousier.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Almost a half hour later we reached the intersection of Montauk Highway and David White’s Lane.&nbsp; I asked her to give me a few minutes to clean the ice pack off my wipers and the congealed snow and road grit out of the grill.&nbsp; It took longer than I hoped, hampered as I was by icy needles being driven into my face.&nbsp; I knew there were buildings on three corners of the intersection, but now with night completely settled in, they only looked like ghostly shapes within the blustery haze.&nbsp; I made it back into the car thinking it may not ever be safe to emerge again. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “They’re saying it’s the blizzard of the century,” said Dayna over my exotic new smart phone, a type that provides everything short of teleportation.&nbsp; “Could get three feet, not including drifts.&nbsp; The governor’s shut down the whole island.&nbsp; Non-essential travel’s forbidden.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “Sorry if this gets you in trouble.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “I’m essential, honey.&nbsp; Which means you’re also protected.&nbsp; It’s like diplomatic immunity.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “I know the cops around here pretty well,” I said.&nbsp; “Good luck with that one.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Even with her heavy four-wheel-drive truck, knobby tires and snow plow it was slow going.&nbsp; Every so often the load in front of the plow grew so large she had to increase the angle of the blade and shove it off to the side.&nbsp; Then we’d back up a little and take off again, her easing along what she hoped was the road surface, now completely obliterated by a blanket of deep snow, and me transfixed by the two red lights on her tailgate and the pale light over the truck’s license plate, which read “Wood Chick”.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I never would have made it without her.&nbsp; No way, no how.&nbsp; <b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “Wood Chick, you’re the aces,” I told her over the phone, deciphering the vanity license plate, WOODCHIK .<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “Now I’m embarrassed.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “Don’t be,” I said.&nbsp; “I’m just trying to be nice.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “My own fault for plastering that name right on my ass.&nbsp; With encouragement from people I’d be better off ignoring.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “I know people like that.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “Tad’s place is getting closer,” she said.&nbsp; “During the day we’d have a visual by now.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; She meant we could have seen one of the towering metal sculptures that comprised the loony installation Tad had created and named Metal Madness.&nbsp; The sculptures,&nbsp; mounted atop Tad’s ersatz mountains, were built of twisted sheets of steel welded into abstract shapes that thrust high into the sky.&nbsp; And consequently, the latest cause for neighborhood angst and costly legal maneuvering, which I was grateful to leave behind, safe within my current career as a full-time criminal attorney. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Seven Ponds wasn’t even a place name, it was just a few roads of the same or similar names that criss-crossed a semi-rural swath north of Southampton Village.&nbsp; And by my reckoning, there was only one pond named Seven Ponds, which must have been either an act of clever misdirection, or the imaginative product of some ancient real estate broker.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; These days I’d call the area mixed use, with farms like Tad’s mostly developed, and the remaining open land, preserved in land trusts, slowly succumbing to natural re-forestation.&nbsp; The few auto repair shops, roadside markets and tractor dealers from back in the day had also taken on a disintegrating, superannuated hue. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Tad’s place was at the northernmost limit of that area, describable as the foot hills of a little forested ridge that ran down the spine of the South Fork. This meant that Dayna and I had a hard fight up a relatively modest grade, with lots of starting and stopping, punctuated by fruitless spinning of wheels, just as my surly father warned me against.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “A little less torque might help,” I said to Dayna over the phone.&nbsp; She grunted and proceeded slowly, but relentlessly, with or without my advice.&nbsp; I followed in the same spirit.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; After what felt like hours, because it almost was, we finally reached the head of the driveway that led into Tad Buczek’s place, heralded by the words “Metal Madness” punched out of a slab of aluminum hung above the entrance.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “At least it’s downhill from here on,” said Dayna, after making a tentative run at the top of the driveway.&nbsp; “You ready?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “I’ve waited all my life.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “I could chain us together again, which might keep you from getting stuck, or just pick my way along in the hope you can keep a safe distance and stay under way.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “That’s what I’ve been doing,” I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “This is different.&nbsp; There’re no road markers.&nbsp; I’ll be driving blind.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “Unchained sounds more like me,” I told her.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “Okay.&nbsp; Here we go.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Dayna dropped the plow and turned into the driveway.&nbsp; It was the deepest snow&nbsp; yet encountered, undisturbed by traffic of any kind.&nbsp; I could see all four wheels of the pickup throwing up tiny wakes, half-spinning, half digging in.&nbsp; It wasn’t a slow passage – Dayna needed the velocity to attack the heavy snow, some in drifts that crested over the top of the plow.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “Are we headed to the house?” she asked over the cell phone.&nbsp; “If so, we’ll have to make a hard left very soon.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “Let me make another call and I’ll tell you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I hung up and tapped Franco’s number from the list of recent calls.&nbsp; It rang a few times before he picked up.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “I see two sets of lights,” he said.&nbsp; “Is that you?”&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">“It’s me and a plow.&nbsp; Where are you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “In front of the big pergola.&nbsp; Tell the plow not to run me over.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I hung up and did just that.&nbsp; I told Dayna the pergola was half way between the upcoming left and the main house.&nbsp; She said “Roger that,” and slowed down to take the left.&nbsp;&nbsp; I crept up behind, praying I had the momentum to stay stuck to the slippery road surface and still make the turn.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; We both made it around, and I saw the lights mounted above the truck’s plow kick up to high beams.&nbsp; I tucked up closer to her rear bumper, feeling more secure at the slower pace she’d chosen.&nbsp; It was still fast enough to cause the snow to explode out from the front of the truck and wash into me from either side and above.&nbsp; My windshield wipers, already compromised, soon surrendered, and I picked up the phone to tell Dayna I had to stop when I heard her voice over the speaker.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “There’s a guy waving at me,” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “Stop there.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; She actually drove a little past him so he was at my passenger side door when I stopped.&nbsp; I rolled down the window.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “So Franco, what up?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I assumed it was Franco based on the prominent nose and thin black moustache and goatee, which were the only identifying features.&nbsp; The rest was snow-covered wool coat and baseball cap.&nbsp; When he greeted me, in his Italian-inflected English, more a lilt than an accent, I was sure it was him.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I got out of the car, and stumbled around to the other side.&nbsp; Dayna approached and asked if I was alright.&nbsp; I introduced the two of them and they peeled off their gloves to shake hands.&nbsp; Franco gave a neat little bow.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “Jackie, I need to show you something.&nbsp; Ms. Red, you better wait here, if you don’t mind.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “I’d rather come,” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “She can come,” I told him, not knowing exactly why.&nbsp; I had nothing to fear from Franco, but you quickly grow connected to people, even strangers, who deliver you through dire circumstances.&nbsp;&nbsp; I wanted her nearby.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “Suit yourself,” he said, turning and then tromping under Tad’s giant pergola through the deep snow, guided by a bright flashlight, made less so by the tiny snow flakes that streamed down through the woody vines and open beams of the structure above.&nbsp; I cursed the lack of a hat. &nbsp;<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; It wasn’t a long walk, blessedly, as I quickly grew weary of the trudge, a misery compounded by the slippery soles of my cowboy boots.&nbsp; We were at the far end of the pergola, in an area that was partially covered by a hard roof under which Tad had a wooden table for al fresco dining.&nbsp; On top of the table was a long, white mound, at the fringes of which I could see the edge of a blue tarp.&nbsp; Franco waited for us to come up to him, then took a piece of the tarp in his gloved hand.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Dayna said “Uh-oh,” under her breath.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “You wanted to come,” Franco said to her, then flipped the tarp over the mound, sending the covering snow flying into the air, where some of it was blown back, hitting me in the face.&nbsp; I wiped my eyes and followed Franco’s flashlight as it outlined the prone figure of a large man, finally stopping at the red and grey mash that used to be the defiant and hard-headed skull of Tadzio Buczek.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23.0pt;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uv1UGRx67dI/T8uQACDEETI/AAAAAAAAAVU/T_3jsKqng1U/s1600/Chris+Knopf.author+photo+low+rez.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uv1UGRx67dI/T8uQACDEETI/AAAAAAAAAVU/T_3jsKqng1U/s320/Chris+Knopf.author+photo+low+rez.jpg" width="214" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 23pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: 'Palatino Linotype', serif;"><span style="line-height: 23pt;">Ice Cap becomes&nbsp;</span><span style="line-height: 31px;">available</span><span style="line-height: 23pt;">&nbsp;as of June 5. Order it now at your local bookstore!</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: 'Palatino Linotype', serif;"><span style="line-height: 23pt;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: 'Palatino Linotype', serif;"><span style="line-height: 23pt;">Michael Haskins</span></span></div><span style="font-family: &quot;Palatino Linotype&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" /></span> <div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><br /> <div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="color: #b1b1bc; font-family: &quot;Verdana&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: normal; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">&nbsp;</span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"><br clear="all" /><o:p></o:p></span></div>Michael Haskinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01542564372760690584noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7606145013695548285.post-41354897435871612502012-05-22T15:47:00.001-04:002012-05-22T15:47:59.249-04:00"Cliff Walk" by Bruce DeSilvaMy friend Bruce DeSilva's second&nbsp;Liam&nbsp;Mulligan crime novel is out and getting rave reviews.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dsVfNcjkSVs/T7vtFxmtnVI/AAAAAAAAAU0/T2KG2WnL2MI/s1600/DeSilva+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dsVfNcjkSVs/T7vtFxmtnVI/AAAAAAAAAU0/T2KG2WnL2MI/s320/DeSilva+1.JPG" width="241" /></a></div><br /><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><i>Publishers Weekly </i>gave it a coveted starred review, saying, "<span style="color: #330000; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">Look for this one to garner more award nominations." <i>Booklist</i> also gave it a starred review, calling the plot "exquisite" and saying it is "terrific on every level."</span><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: #330000; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: #330000; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">One again, the story revolves around the tumultuous life of </span>Liam Mulligan, a wise-cracking investigative reporter for a dying Providence, R.I., newspaper. &nbsp;As the tale opens, prostitution is legal in the state (which it really was until two years ago.) Politicians are making a lot of speeches about the shame of it, but they aren't doing anything about it. Mulligan suspects somebody is being paid off. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">As he investigates, a child's severed arm is discovered in a pile of garbage at a local pig farm. Then the body of an internet pornographer turns up at the bottom of the famous Cliff Walk in nearby Newport. At first the killings seem random, but as Mulligan keeps digging, strange connections begin to emerge. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Promised free sex with hookers if he minds his own business--and a savage beating if he doesn't--Mulligan enlists the help of Thanks-Dad, the newspaper publisher's son, and Attila the Nun, the state's colorful attorney general, in his quest for the truth. What he learns will lead him to question his long-held beliefs about sexual morality, shake his tenuous religious faith, and leave him wondering who his real friends are. <i>Cliff Walk</i> is at once a hardboiled mystery and a serious exploration of sex and religion in the age of pornography<b><span style="font-size: 11pt;">.</span></b><o:p></o:p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GlriO9qQzTQ/T7vtTDTmv4I/AAAAAAAAAU8/ez1yDHFBZbk/s1600/FINAL+Cliff+Walk+Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GlriO9qQzTQ/T7vtTDTmv4I/AAAAAAAAAU8/ez1yDHFBZbk/s320/FINAL+Cliff+Walk+Cover.jpg" width="204" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></b></div>Michael Haskinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01542564372760690584noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7606145013695548285.post-2154185242234542832012-04-28T10:31:00.000-04:002012-04-28T10:31:01.270-04:00MWA 2012 Edgar Award Winners<br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">Mystery Writers of America</span></b><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">is proud to announce the winners of the 2012 Edgar Allan Poe Awards, honoring the best in mystery fiction, non-fiction and television published or produced in 2011. The Edgar® Awards were presented to the winners at our 66<sup>th</sup>Gala Banquet, April 26, 2012 at the Grand Hyatt Hotel, New York City.<br />&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shapetype id="_x0000_t75" coordsize="21600,21600" o:spt="75" o:preferrelative="t" path="m@4@5l@4@11@9@11@9@5xe" filled="f" stroked="f"> <v:stroke joinstyle="miter"/> <v:formulas> <v:f eqn="if lineDrawn pixelLineWidth 0"/> <v:f eqn="sum @0 1 0"/> <v:f eqn="sum 0 0 @1"/> <v:f eqn="prod @2 1 2"/> <v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelWidth"/> <v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelHeight"/> <v:f eqn="sum @0 0 1"/> <v:f eqn="prod @6 1 2"/> <v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelWidth"/> <v:f eqn="sum @8 21600 0"/> <v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelHeight"/> <v:f eqn="sum @10 21600 0"/> </v:formulas> <v:path o:extrusionok="f" gradientshapeok="t" o:connecttype="rect"/> <o:lock v:ext="edit" aspectratio="t"/></v:shapetype><v:shape id="Picture_x0020_1" o:spid="_x0000_i1025" type="#_x0000_t75" alt="Description: Edgar Statue" style='width:75pt;height:99.75pt;visibility:visible; mso-wrap-style:square'> <v:imagedata src="file:///C:\Users\Michael\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image001.jpg" o:title="Edgar Statue"/></v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]--></span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">BEST NOVEL</span></b><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><br /><br /><b>Gone</b> by Mo Hayder (Grove/Atlantic – Atlantic Monthly Press)<br /><br /><br /></span><b><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">BEST FIRST NOVEL BY AN AMERICAN AUTHOR</span></b><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><br /><br /><b>Bent Road</b> by Lori Roy (Penguin Group USA - Dutton)<br /><br /><br /></span><b><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">BEST PAPERBACK ORIGINAL</span></b><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><br /><br /><b>The Company Man</b> by Robert Jackson Bennett (Hachette Book Group – Orbit Books)<br /><br /><br /></span><b><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">BEST FACT CRIME</span></b><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><br /><br /><b>Destiny of the Republic: A Tale of Madness, Medicine and the Murder of a President</b><br />by Candice Millard (Random House - Doubleday)<br /><br /><br /></span><b><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">BEST CRITICAL/BIOGRAPHICAL</span></b><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><br /><br /><b>On Conan Doyle: Or, the Whole Art of Storytelling </b>by Michael Dirda (Princeton University Press)<br /><br /><br /></span><b><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">BEST SHORT STORY</span></b><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><br /><br /><b>&nbsp;“The Man Who Took His Hat Off to the Driver of the Train” – <i>Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine</i></b> by Peter Turnbull (Dell Magazines)<br /><br /><br /></span><b><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">BEST JUVENILE</span></b><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><br /><br /><b>Icefall</b> by Matthew J. Kirby (Scholastic Press)<br /><br /><br /></span><b><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">BEST YOUNG ADULT</span></b><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><br /><br /><b>&nbsp;The Silence of Murder</b> by Dandi Daley Mackall (Random House Children’s Books – Knopf BFYR)<br /><br /><br /></span><b><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">BEST PLAY</span></b><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><br /><br /><b>The Game’s Afoot</b> by Ken Ludwig (Cleveland Playhouse, Cleveland, OH)<br /><br /><br /></span><b><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">BEST TELEVISION EPISODE TELEPLAY</span></b><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><br /><br /><b>&nbsp;“Pilot” – <i>Homeland,</i></b> Teleplay by Alex Gansa, Howard Gordon &amp; Gideon Raff (Showtime)<br /><br /><br /></span><b><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">ROBERT L. FISH MEMORIAL AWARD</span></b><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><br /><br /><b>"A Good Man of Business" – <i>Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine</i> </b><br />by David Ingram (Dell Magazines)<br /><br /><br /></span><b><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">GRAND MASTER</span></b><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><br /><br />Martha Grimes<br /><br /><br /></span><b><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">RAVEN AWARDS</span></b><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><br /><br />M is for Mystery Bookstore, San Mateo, CA<br />Molly Weston, Meritorious Mysteries<br /><br /></span><b><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">ELLERY QUEEN AWARD</span></b><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br />Joe Meyers of the Connecticut Post/Hearst Media News Group<br /><br />**********************<br /><br /></span><b><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">THE SIMON &amp; SCHUSTER - MARY HIGGINS CLARK AWARD</span></b><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><br />(Presented at MWA’s Agents &amp; Editors Party on Wednesday, April 25, 2012)<br /><br /><b>Learning to Swim</b> by Sara J. Henry (Crown Publishing Group)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><br /><br /><br />&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"># # # #<o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">The EDGAR (and logo) are Registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office by the Mystery Writers of America, Inc.</span></i><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><br /><br clear="all" /></span><o:p></o:p></div>Michael Haskinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01542564372760690584noreply@blogger.com0